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THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER- HOUSE 


THE  HUMAN^****'*'^'* 
SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

Scenes  from  the  War  that  is  Sure  to  Come 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF 

WILHELM    LAMSZUS 

BY 

OAKLEY   WILLIAMS 

WITH    AN    INTRODUCTION    BY 

ALFRED   NOYES 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  igij,  by 
Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company 


All  rights  reserved 


May,  igi3 


3X 

^  INTRODUCTION 

THERE  is  one  thing  that  will  certainly  he 
§  said  about  this  hook  hy  some  of  its  readers.    It 
f5  will  certainly  be  said  to  exaggerate  the  horrors 
of  modern  war;  and,  just  as  certainly,  that  is 
a  thing  which  this  hook  does  not  do.    It  is 
in  appallingly  reticent;  and,  for  every  touch  of 
'-  horror  in  its  pages,  the  actual  records  of  recent 
11  warfare  coidd  supply  an  ohscure  and  blood- 
Sj  stained  mass  of  detail  which,  if  it  were  once 
laid  hefore  the  puhlic,  would  put  an  end  to 
militarism  in  a  year.     It  is  not  the  opponents 
*j  of  militarism  who  are  given  over  to  "cant"  and 
^  "hypocrisy"   and   "emotionalism."    It  is   the 
^supporters  of  militarism  who  on  the  eve  of  a 
o  great  war  go  ahout  crying  for  suppression  of 
^  facts,  censorship  of  the  facts  not  only  of  mili- 
tary plans,   hut  of  human  suffering.    For  if 
there  is  one  thing  that  the  military  journalist 
[v] 


INTRODUCTION 


dreads  it  is  the  sight  and  smell  of  blood.  "Let 
us  enjoy  this  pleasant  compaign.  Let  us  pre- 
sent our  readers  with  a  little  military  music 
played  upon  the  brass  bands  of  the  press.  But 
for  God's  sake  do  not  waft  over  Europe  the 
smell  of  iodoform,  or  of  the  slaughter-house. 
Man  is  a  lighting  animal;  let  us  enjoy  the  fight. 
And — pollice  verso!" 

Unfortunately  for  these  gentlemen,  whose 
good  taste  is  so  impeccable  that  they  shrink 
from  the  whole  truth,  man  is  also  a  fighting 
god.  'And  the  next  thing  we  are  going  to  fight 
is  militarism.  There  is  hardly  a  great  com- 
mander in  the  history  of  modern  warfare  who 
has  not  described  his  own  profession  as  "a  dirty 
trade"  and  war  itself  as  hell.  The  party  of 
''bad  taste"  which  is  going  to  destroy  militarism 
is  not  likely  to  reject  the  testimony  of  Welling- 
ton, Grant  and  Napier  in  favor  of  the  sensa- 
tional journalist.  This  book  deals  chiefly  with 
the  physical  and  mental  horrors  of  war.  It 
presents  just  that  one  side  of  the  case;  but  it 
[vi] 


INTRODUCTION 


must  not  be  forgotten  that  there  are  vast  bat- 
talions of  logic  and  common  sense  on  the  same 
side.  From  a  logical  point  of  view  a  war  be- 
tween civilized  peoples  is  as  insane  as  it  is  foul 
and  evil.  The  pacificists  are  fighting  the  noblest 
battle  of  the  present  day.  They  are  not  going 
to  win  without  a  struggle;  but  they  will  win. 
And  they  will  win  because  they  have  on  their 
side  the  common  good  of  mankind,  common 
sense,  common  justice,  and  common  truth. 


Alfred  Noyes. 


[vii] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction v 

WiLHELM    LaMSZUS I 

Letter  from  the  Congres  Universel  de 

LA  PaiX 19 

CHAPTER 

I    Mobilization 21 

II     Soldier 27 

III  Our  Father  Which  Art  in  Heaven  2i7 

IV  The  Last  Night 44 

V    The  Departure 49 

VI    Like  the  Promise  of  May   ...  59 

VII    Blood  and  Iron 67 

VIII    The  Swamp 84 

IX    The  Whirling  Earth    ....  94 
Epilogue — We  Poor  Dead  .     .     .114 


WILHELM    LAMSZUS 

Few  books  of  its  size — one  hundred  and  eleven 
pages  in  the  original  edition — can  perhaps  of 
recent  years  claim  the  striking  and  instantane- 
ous success  of  Wilhelm  Lamszus's  "Menschen- 
schlachthaus."  In  appraising  this  success,  I 
am  less  concerned  with  the  number  of  copies 
sold  (which  now,  three  months  after  publica- 
tion, approximates,  I  believe,  one  hundred 
thousand)  than  with  the  impression  it  has  left 
on  the  mind  of  its  readers  in  Germany  and  else- 
where on  the  Continent.  Within  a  few  days  of 
its  publication  the  author  awoke  to  find  himself 
famous — or  infamous,  according  to  the  point 
of  view  adopted — in  his  own  country.  The 
fact  that  his  book  has  been,  or  is  being,  trans- 
lated into  no  less  than  eight  European  lan- 
guages is  evidence  that  its  appeal  is  not  con- 
fined to  the  conditions  of  one  country,  or  of  a 
single  nationality. 

Its  appeal  is  broad-based.    It  is  addressed  to 

[I] 


WILHELM  LAMSZUS 


the  conscience  of  civilized  humanity,  and  as 
was  to  have  been  expected,  the  conscience  of 
the  individual  has  reacted  to  its  stimulus  in 
various  ways. 

The  first  evidence  the  author  received  of  the 
success  of  his  work  was  drastic.  By  profession 
he  is  a  master  at  one  of  the  great  German  pub- 
lic schools.  He  was  at  once  "relieved"  of  his 
duties,  but  has  now,  I  understand,  been  rein- 
stated. The  schoolmaster  in  Germany,  it  must 
be  borne  in  mind,  is  primarily  a  state  official. 
His  most  important  function  is  to  educate,  not 
only  the  rising  generation  of  citizens,  but  the 
future  levies  of  conscripts.  For  a  schoolmaster 
to  write  a  book  "with  a  tendency"  to  strip  the 
pomp  and  circumstance  of  war  of  its  traditional 
glamour — an  integral  factor  in  the  German  edu- 
cational system — must,  in  the  eyes  of  the  ortho- 
dox of  the  "State-conserving"  parties,  have 
savored  of  an  unholy  alliance  between  blas- 
phemy and  high  treason.  The  sale  of  the  book 
was  interdicted  in  the  town  of  its  first  publica- 

[2] 


WILHELM  LAMSZUS 


tion — the  "free"  city  of  Hamburg.  The  inter- 
dict had  the  effect  of  stimulating  its  sale  else- 
where. It  challenged  a  hearing.  Even  the 
"State-conserving"  journals  v^ere  unable  to 
ignore  it  entirely. 

A  short  time  ago,  in  an  open  letter  addressed 
to  the  German  press,  the  author  replied  to  the 
criticisms  and  strictures  of  his  professional  re- 
viewers. As  may  be  conceived,  these  criticisms 
and  strictures  lacked  nothing  in  virulence  or 
acrimony.  "A  peril  to  the  public  safety,"  "an 
hysterical  neuropath,"  "a  morbid  phantasy," 
"a  socialist-anarchic  revolutionary,"  "a  cow- 
ardly weakling,"  "a  landless  man,"  "an  im- 
ported alien  draining  the  marrow  of  patriotic 
backbone,"  may  serve  as  an  anthology  (for 
which  I  am  mainly  indebted  to  the  Hamburger 
Nachrichten)  of  the  Cv^mpliments  showered  on 
the  author  and  his  work.  As  this  reply  dis- 
closes what  was  in  the  author's  mind  when  he 
wrote  his  book,  definitely  explains  its  purport 
and  its  purpose,  it  may  be  worth  some  consid- 

[3] 


WILHELM  LAMSZUS 


eration.  It  may  serve  to  differentiate  "The 
Human  Slaughter-House"  from  the  itch  of 
mere  hterary  sensationahsm  and  enable  the 
foreigner  to  understand  the  light  in  which  the 
Commission  for  Instruction,  Education,  etc., 
of  the  nineteenth  Universal  Peace  Congress  at 
Geneva  regarded  it  when  last  year  it  wrote 
officially  to  congratulate  its  author  on  having 
placed  "a  weapon  of  the  greatest  importance" 
in  the  hands  of  the  pacificists. 

At  all  times  and  at  all  places,  Lamszus 
points  out,  patriotism  has  been  of  two  kinds. 
The  one  sort  takes  its  stand  on  the  public 
market-place,  with  its  hand  on  its  manly  chest, 
to  advertise  the  public  spirit  that  inflates  it.  In 
season  and  out  of  season,  it  never  fails  to  in- 
vite the  public  gaze  to  dwell  on  the  integrity 
of  its  patriotic  sentiments.  Its  main  strength 
lies  in  the  spectacular  and  oratorical.  As  such 
it  not  infrequently  deteriorates  into  the  idle 
sound  and  fury  of  Junkerdom,  Chauvinism 
and  Jingoism. 

[  4  ] 


WILHELM  LAMSZUS 


There  is  that  other  type  of  patriotism  that, 
no  less  loyal  to  its  own  country,  believes  in 
the  dignity  and  worth  of  humanity,  that  be- 
lieves in  the  patriotism  of  quiet,  unadvertised, 
productive  work  and  in  the  virtue  of  a  sense 
of  moral  responsibility.  It  is  sanguine  enough 
to  believe  that  it  may  yet  be  the  destiny  of  a 
great  nation  to  serve  the  cause  of  humanity  by 
eliminating  the  hideous  necessity  for  war.  It 
finds  its  highest  representative  in  the  patriot 
of  the  type  of  the  late  Emperor  Frederick  the 
Noble,  who,  himself  a  soldier  proven  on  the 
stricken  field,  found  the  courage  to  say,  "I 
hate  the  business  of  blood.  You  have  never 
seen  war.  If  you  had  ever  seen  it  you  would 
not  speak  the  word  unmoved.  I  have  seen  it, 
and  I  tell  you  it  is  a  man's  highest  duty  to 
avoid  war  if  by  any  means  it  can  be  avoided." 

The  issue  Lamszus  raises  at  the  bar  of  pub- 
lic opinion  of  the  civilized  world  is  whether 
the  patriot  of  this  type  must  necessarily  be 
either  a  "neuropath"  or  a  "landless  alien,"  as 
[5] 


WILHELM  LAMSZUS 


compared  with  him  of  the  other  sort;  whether 
he  be  necessarily  lacking  in  civic  spirit,  virility, 
and  even  soldierly  virtues. 

If  the  matter  be  of  any  concern,  I  gather 
that  the  author  himself,  so  far  from  being 
physically  a  weakling,  is  a  trained  gymnast 
(of  the  type  that  our  representatives  will  have 
to  take  into  account  at  the  next  Olympic 
games)  given  to  athletic  exercises.  He  has 
also  had  sufficient  medical  training  to  have 
passed  through  a  school  of  comparative  anat- 
omy. There  are,  therefore,  no  grounds  for  as- 
suming offhand  that  he  is  of  the  nerveless 
type  that  faints  at  the  first  sight  of  blood;  yet 
he  writes  of  war  with  a  shudder  that  the  reader 
can  feel  in  every  line. 

Yet — a  contradiction  his  critics  have  not 
been  slow  to  underline — this  same  man,  who 
abhors  the  very  thought  of  war,  has  written 
to  the  praise  and  glorification  of  war  "like  a 
professional  panegyrist."  While  he  was  writ- 
ing "The  Human  S laughter-House,"  he  was 
[6] 


WILHELM  LAMSZUS 


also  engaged  in  etching  some  literary  silhou- 
ettes, embodying  the  Dutch  folk-songs,  of  the 
revolt  of  the  Netherlands.  The  contrast  is  so 
striking  that  one  or  two  of  these  "prose 
poems"  may  be  worth  quoting. 


A  reign  of  terror  has  dawned  on  the 
Netherlands.  The  Netherlands,  ever  proud 
of  their  freedom,  are  henceforward  to  be 
Spanish  provinces.  But  the  Netherlander 
has  no  mind  for  the  honor.  He  cleaves  ob- 
stinately to  his  chartered  rights  and  to  his 
nationality. 

Then  the  Duke  of  Alva  has  come  into  the 
country  in  the  Emperor's  stead.  He  has 
brought  in  his  train  an  army  of  Spanish 
soldiers,  the  gallows,  and  the  executioner's 
axe.  He  has  turned  the  country  into  a  ceme- 
tery. A  graveyard  stillness  reigns  over  it. 
For  where  three  men  foregather  in  the  streets 
they  smell  out  conspiracy  in  their  midst. 
An  ill-considered  word,  and  the  gallows, 
lowering  in  the  background,  silences  the  fool- 
ish mouth. 

Setting  their  teeth,  the  Netherlanders  have 

[7J 


WILHELM  LAMSZUS 


to  suffer  it.  The  Spanish  sword  reaches  the 
remotest  village.  Only  in  secret  do  they  dare 
clench  their  fists.  For  the  hangman's  rack 
has  a  way  of  smoothing  out  clenched 
fists. 

Terror  lies  on  its  chain  like  a  wild  beast. 
Only  when  it  believes  itself  to  be  unobserved 
does  it  rise  and  sees  the  people  lying  on  their 
knees,  and  hears  a  tortured  country  crying 
up  to  Heaven. 

II 

A  star  has  risen  against  the  sky  of  despair. 
The  saviour  of  the  Fatherland  has  been 
found.  Egmont  and  Hoorn,  the  darlings  of 
the  people,  have  walked  into  the  trap  and 
have  been  beheaded  in  the  market-place.  But 
Orange  has  escaped.  He  has  taken  flight  to 
Germany. 

Orange,  a  clever  brain !  More  clever  than 
Spanish  guile. 

Orange,  a  brave  heart !  Braver  than  Span- 
ish death  and  swords. 

How  calm  was  his  countenance !  How 
confident  his  speech!  He  is  not  the  man 
to  rush  anything,  to  spoil  anything.  He  will 
return  in  his  own  time.     They  are  already 

[8] 


WILHELM  LAMSZUS 


whispering  it  stealthily  in  one  another's  ear. 
The  whisper  is  already  passing  from  ear  to 
ear,  increasing  to  joyous  certainty: 

He  is  already  in  our  midst.  As  yet  he  is 
in  hiding.  But  on  the  morrow  his  call  will 
ring  out,  and  his  confidence  glow  through 
every  man's  heart. 

William  of  Orange! 

Ill 

The  call  has  come.  They  are  flocking  in 
on  every  road.  Groups  of  peasants  and  ar- 
tisans. Masters,  and  apprentices  among 
them.  And  the  greybeards  have  taken  their 
old  weapons  from  the  wall. 

Halberds  flash  in  the  sunlight.  Old-fash- 
ioned furniture  of  war.  But  still  more 
ardently  do  their  eyes  flash.  All  are  of  one 
mind.  All  driven  on  irresistibly  by  one  single 
impulse. 

So  they  pass  singing  along  the  highroads. 
They  had  almost  forgotten  how  to  sing.  But 
now  it  breaks  out  the  more  joyously  in  the 
sunlight — the  solemn  chant. 

Dumfounded,  the  Spanish  outpost,  under 
cover  of  a  hedge,  gapes  after  them.  Let 
them  run,  the  spies.     The  spell  is  broken, 

[9] 


WILHELM  LAMSZUS 


Let  them  hear  of  it  till  their  ears  ring 
again. 

The  morning  sun  is  shining.  But  we  are 
marching  to  death  and  singing: 

"Happy  is  he  who  knows  how  to  die  for 
God  and  his  dear  Fatherland." 

IV 

A  pleasant  farm  hidden  away  in  a  garden. 
It  is  springtide.  The  garden  is  a  blaze  of 
white.  Apple-trees  in  blossom.  Beneath 
their  boughs  a  man  and  a  girl  are  standing 
close  intertwined. 

Beyond,  on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge, 
they  are  passing  along  the  village  street. 
Their  friends  of  the  village.  Their  hour  has 
come. 

The  girl's  head  is  resting  heavily  on  his 
breast,  and  her  arm  trembling  round  his 
neck.  "Stay  with  me,  only  stay  one  day 
more.  The  wedding  was  to  have  been  to- 
morrow. You  will  never  come  back !  And 
we  are  so  young — so  very  young.  Look, 
how  the  blossom  is  falling.  You,  too,  will 
lie  on  the  ground  like  that,  so  dead  and 
white.    And  I  shall  waste  away  and  fade." 

Then  he  looks   into   her  eyes — sad  unto 

[10] 


WILHELM  LAMSZUS 


death  and  fearful.  "So  you  wish  me  to  stay 
behind,  and  the  others  to  go  and  die  for 
us?" 

She  shakes  her  head  without  a  word,  and 
looks  up  at  him  with  a  smile  amid  her  tears. 
Then  he  kisses  her,  and  clasps  her  hand  in 
farewell. 

V 

The  groups  have  assembled.  They  have 
grown  from  day  to  day,  and  drawn  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  enemy. 

And  now  the  two  armies  are  arrayed 
against  each  other — eye  to  eye.  On  the 
plain  yonder  you  can  see  them — the  Spanish 
troops  flashing  in  steel — so  close  that  you 
can  distinguish  their  yellow  faces  in  the 
sunlight. 

What  is  their  quest  here  on  foreign  soil? 
They  are  selling  their  blood  for  a  hireling's 
wage,  and  turning  themselves  into  hangmen 
to  lay  a  free  people  in  chains. 

A  distant  glow  is  still  glowering  to  the 
heavens.  The  last  villages  through  which 
the  Spanish  dogs  passed.  They  have  left 
smoke  and  ruin  behind  them.  Mangled 
corpses,  the  wailing  of  children.     What  do 

[II] 


WILHELM  LAMSZUS 


the  strangers  care  ?  They  have  come  into  the 
country  for  loot. 

There  they  stand,  the  destroyers!  Splen- 
didly harnessed,  practised  in  war,  and  used 
to  victory.  Callously,  as  if  at  their  handi- 
craft, without  much  shouting,  or  much  run- 
ning about  and  movement,  the  array  over 
there  falls  into  line.  A  dangerous  foe  in  its 
uncanny  quiet. 

Over  against  them  the  Netherlanders  are 
a  people  assembled  at  haste.  They  are  igno- 
rant of  drill,  are  ignorant  how  they  ought 
to  fight  in  ranks,  and  on  horseback.  But  on 
the  issue  they  are  staking  hearts  filled  with 
indomitable  hate,  filled  full  with  undying  love 
of  country. 

Beggars,  the  Spaniards  once  called  them. 
And  the  Beggars  are  mindful  of  their  naked- 
ness. Their  fists  clench.  Their  teeth  are  set. 
And  their  lips  are  mumbling  curses  and  hot 
prayers. 


VI 


It  came  to  fighting.  It  came  to  murder. 
Death  leaped  up,  and  raced  neighing  across 
the  battlefield,  until  it  dripped  blood — until 

[12] 


WILHELM  LAMSZUS 


at  even,  blinded  with  blood,  it  fled  away  into 
the  darkness. 

The  battle  is  over  now.  The  daylight  is 
dying  behind  Bergen's  towers.  The  shadows 
of  night  are  blending  with  the  shadow  of 
Death. 

It  was  a  glorious  fight.  The  wrath  of  a 
people  is  mightier  than  all  the  guile  and 
strategy  on  earth. 

But  the  victors  are  exhausted.  Watch  fires 
are  ablaze.  They  all  crowd  round  them  to 
comfort  themselves  in  their  warmth. 

Dark  figures  are  whispering  in  groups. 
"Ha!  How  they  ran!  Whoever  was  over- 
taken was  cut  down — without  mercy.  They 
will  remember  the  day.  Will  they  come  on 
again?  How  will  the  sinister  Emperor  take 
it?  How  far  does  his  power  reach?  They 
will  come  on  again.  A  bigger  army!  A 
bigger  fleet!" 

Look  how  the  stars  are  gleaming.  The 
air  is  clear.  Even  now  you  can  see  the 
heavens  opening.  And  the  Milky  Way  is 
glimmering  down  to  meet  you. 

The  sound  of  singing  rises  in  the  distance. 
An  old  hymn.  A  prayer  of  thanks  of  the 
days  of  our  fathers.    Those  nearest  by  take 

[13] 


WILHELM  LAMSZUS 


it  up.    The  chant  leaps  from  fire  to  fire.    The 
darkling  field  is  singing.    The  night  is  sing- 
ing.   A  choir  raising  their  hands  to  Heaven, 
their  voices  to  the  stars. 
Lord !  Grant  us  freedom ! 

Where  then  lies  the  truth?  In  these  "prose 
poems"  aglow  with  martial  enthusiasm,  and 
ringing  with  the  soldier's  spirit,  or  in  the  re- 
lentless anatomical  realism  of  "The  Human 
Slaughter-House"?  Or  are  both  lies — "both 
deliberate  conscious  untruths,  written  under 
the  inspiration  of  a  social  democratic  lawyer?" 

The  explanation,  as  Lamszus  see  it,  lies  in 
the  condition  of  the  times.  No  one,  he  claims, 
could  write  of  the  revolt  of  the  Dutch  Repub- 
lics otherwise  than  in  the  brave  setting  of  flash- 
ing eyes,  glittering  steel,  and  the  stirring  clash 
of  men-at-arms.  But  it  is  equally  untrue  to  tell 
of  modern  warfare  waged  with  picric  acid  and 
electric  wires  in  the  same  spirit.  The  romance 
and  glamour  of  warfare  in  the  past  are  grin- 
ning lies  when  transferred  to  latter-day  war- 
fare, where  long-drawn  fronts  of  flesh  and 
[14] 


WILHELM  LAMSZUS 


blood  are  opposed  to  machines  of  precision  and 
the  triumphs  of  the  chemical  laboratory.  The 
anachronism  becomes  nothing  less  than  the  de- 
liberate falsification  of  history.  Dynamite  and 
machine-guns,  not  the  writer,  have  turned  the 
"Field  of  Honor"  into  a  "Human  Slaughter- 
House,"  where  regiments  are  wiped  out  by 
pressing  an  electric  button. 

In  the  hideousness  of  these  scenes  of  future 
warfare  the  charge  of  exaggeration,  of  paint- 
ing carnage  red,  is  easy  to  raise,  and  difficult 
to  rebut.    Lamszus  does  not  shirk  it. 

"What  I  have  written  was  worked  out  em- 
pirically. It  is  a  sum  that  is,  mathematically, 
so  incontestable  that  no  one  has  hitherto  ven- 
tured to  dispute  it.  For  the  second  factor  in 
this  sum  is  the  albuminous  substance  of  human 
brain  and  marrow.  And  when  we  hear  that  in 
the  Russo-Japanese  war  thousands  went  mad, 
who  would  care  to  maintain  that  the  nervous 
system  of  the  civilized  mid-European  is  hard- 
ier and  tougher  than  that  of  Asiatics  and  semi- 
[15] 


WILHELM  LAMSZUS 


civilized  Russians?  'The  material  has  become 
softer,'  says  the  authority  of  the  staff-general. 
What  now,  when  the  sum  total  of  acoustic  and 
visual  stimuli,  of  physical  and  psychic  shocks, 
to  which  this  'softer  material'  is  exposed,  has, 
with  every  new  invention,  become  more  de- 
structive in  quality  and  quantity  ?  To  find  the 
answer  to  such  a  simple  problem  did  not  as- 
suredly call  for  a  mathematical  genius." 

With  the  answer  before  us,  the  question 
rises  whether  it  is  more  patriotic  to  blink  it, 
to  go  on  pretending  that  war  is  what  it  used  to 
be — a  soldier's  death  on  the  field  of  honor,  or 
senseless  automatic  slaughter  by  machinery. 
It  is  against  this  latter  mechanical  aspect  of 
war  that  the  instinct  of  humanity,  to  which 
Lamszus  has  given  voice  in  vivid  words,  re- 
volts. Does  it  become  a  man  better  to  look, 
with  the  full  sense  of  his  moral  and  ethical 
responsibility,  the  hideous  fact  in  its  face,  or 
to  continue  to  disguise  it  under  a  veil  of  ro- 
mance woven  round  the  pomp  and  circumstance 
[i6] 


WILHELM  LAMSZUS 


of  glorious  war?  In  this  sense  "The  Human 
Slaughter-House"  of  Lamszus'  invention 
stands,  as  the  Universal  Peace  Congress  read 
it,  for  the  revolt  of  the  spirit  of  humanity,  the 
spirit  of  progress  and  evolution,  against  the 
cumulative  horror  of  the  mechanics  of  modern 
warfare. 

"For  just  as  there  is  no  room  for  the  un- 
couth monsters  of  primeval  times,  for  Masto- 
don and  Brontosaurus,  on  the  green  earth  to- 
day, so  little  will  a  nation  of  Krupp's  steel 
plates  be  able  to  continue  to  live  in  the  com- 
munity of  civilized  nations." 

None  the  less,  a  nation  of  men  of  virile  breed 
will,  he  believes,  be  no  less  prompt  to  take  up 
arms  in  defence  of  its  heritage  of  culture  than 
Prussia  was  in  1813,  and  to  fight  in  its  defence 
to  the  last  gasp.  For  in  the  War  of  Liberation 
it  was  not  drill,  but  the  spirit  of  the  people  that 
saved  the  country. 

"Thus  the  people  in  which  we  have  belief 
will  be  irresistible  in  the  council  of  nations, 
[17] 


WILHELM  LAMSZUS 


and  be  destined  before  every  other  to  lead  the 
nations  to  the  work  for  which  Nature  has  fash- 
ioned them.  .  .  .  Worthless  indeed  is  the  na- 
tion that  would  not  stake  its  all  for  its  honor. 
The  only  question  that  remains  is  what  the 
spirit  of  this  honor  be;  whether  the  appetite 
of  savages  and  barbarians,  hungry  for  spoils, 
impels  me,  or  whether  moral  honor,  the  blood- 
stained desecrated  face  of  God,  inspires  me." 
With  these  bold  words  Lamszus  concludes 
his  apologia  for  the  brutality  of  "The  Human 
Slaughter-House." 

Oakley  Williams. 


[i8] 


WILHELM  LAMSZUS 


[Translation. "l 

To  Herr  Lamszus. 
XIX"*^  Congres  Universel  de  la  Paix  a  Geneve. 

Geneve,  1912. 

Dear  Sir, 

I  have  great  pleasure  in  acquitting  my- 
self of  the  duty  of  expressing  to  you,  in  the  name 
of  "The  Commission  for  Education,  Instruction, 
etc.,"  composed  of  delegates  of  the  most  varied 
nations  assembled  at  the  World's  Peace  Con- 
gress, and,  further,  in  the  name  of  all  Pacificists, 
our  thanks  for  the  distinguished  word-picture  of 
rare  artistic  originality  and  of  gripping  effective- 
ness of  the  wholesale  murders  of  the  future  in 
"The  Human  Slaughter-House,"  for  having  fur- 
nished the  cause  of  peace  with  a  iveapon  of  con- 
siderable importance,  and  for  having  more  espe- 
cially made  a  very  valuable  gift  to  the  cause  of 
every  Pacificist. 

May  the  blessing  of  its  work  be  great ! 

On  behalf  of  the  Congress  Commission  for 
Education,  Instruction,  etc. 

Dr.  a.  Westphal, 
Secretary. 


[19] 


THE  HUMAN 
SLAUGHTER  -  HOUSE 

CHAPTER  I 

MOBILIZATION 

War!  War  is  declared!  So  the  news  speeds 
hollow-eyed  through  the  streets.  We  are  at 
war.    It's  the  real  thing  this  time. 

Mobilization ! 

The  ominous  word  dominates  the  placards 
on  the  hoardings.  The  newspapers  reproduce 
the  proclamations  in  their  heaviest  type,  and 
rumors  and  dispatches  flutter  like  a  ruffled 
dovecote  round  this  day  of  Blood  and  Iron. 

It  is  deadly  earnest  now.  And  this  sense  of 
the  seriousness  of  it  has  numbed  the  State  like 
a  stroke  of  paralysis.  But  then  a  jar,  as  of  a 
lever  thrown  over,  goes  through  the  vast  iron 
fabric.  And  every  one  has  got  to  yield  to  this 
jar.     The  time  for  anxiety  and  hesitation  is 

[21] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

over,  for  doubts  and  oscillation.  The  moment 
has  now  come  when  we  cease  to  be  citizens, 
from  henceforward  we  are  only  soldiers — sol- 
diers who  have  no  time  to  think,  who  only 
have  time  to  die. 

So  they  come  flocking  in  from  the  work- 
shops, from  the  factories,  from  behind  the 
counters,  from  business  offices,  and  the  open 
country — they  come  flocking  into  the  town, 
and  every  man  falls  in  to  stand  by  his  native 
land. 

"Four  days  from  date"  was  the  order  on 
my  summons.  Well,  the  fourth  morning  has 
come,  and  I  have  said  good-by  to  my  wife  and 
my  two  children.  Thank  God,  the  fourth 
morning  has  come,  for  the  parting  was  not 
easy,  and  my  heart  aches  when  I  think  of  them 
"at  home." 

"Where  are  you  going,  Daddy?"  asked 
Baby,  as  I  kissed  her  for  the  last  time  with  my 
portmanteau  in  my  hand. 

"Daddy's   going   on   a  journey,"    said   her 

[22] 


MOBILIZATION 


mother,  and  looked  at  me  with  a  smile  amid 
her  tears.  "Yes,  he's  going  on  a  journey, 
girlie,  and  you,  little  chap,  you've  got  to  be 
good,  and  do  as  Mummy  tells  you." 

And  then  we  got  the  parting  over  quickly, 
for  Dora  kept  up  her  pluck  until  the  last 
moment.  .  .  . 

Now  we  are  drawn  up  in  the  barrack-yard 
with  bag  and  baggage — we  of  the  rank  and 
file — we  reservists  and  militiamen,  every  man 
at  his  place  by  the  table. 

How  serious  their  faces  are.  They  reveal 
no  trace  of  youthful  high  spirits  or  martial 
exuberance.  Their  expressions  rather  betoken 
deep  thought. 

"The  war  that  in  the  end  was  bound  to 
come" — so  we  heard  and  so  we  read  in  the 
papers.  "That  is  bound  to  be  so,  that  is  a 
law  of  Nature.  The  nations  are  snatching  the 
bread  from  one  another's  mouths;  they  are  de- 
priving each  other  of  the  air  to  breathe.  That 
[23] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

is  a  thing  which  in  the  end  can  only  be  settled 
by  Force.  And  if  it  has  to  be,  better  it  should 
be  today  than  tomorrow." 

We  are  mercenaries  no  longer — those  hire- 
lings for  murder,  who  once  sold  their  blood 
for  money  down  to  all  and  sundry.  We  are 
gladiators  no  longer — slaves  who  enact  the 
drama  of  dying  as  an  exciting  spectacle  for  the 
entertainment  of  the  rich,  and  for  the  lust  of 
their  eyes.  It  is  to  our  native  land  we  took 
our  oath.  And  if  it  must  be,  we  are  resolved 
to  die  as  citizens,  to  die  in  the  full  conscious- 
ness and  full  responsibility  for  our  acts. 

What  will  the  next  few  days  have  in  store 
for  us? 

Not  one  of  us  has  probably  ever,  with  his 
own  eyes,  seen  a  field  of  battle.  But  we  have 
heard  about  it  from  others,  and  we  have  read 
in  books  of  other  men  what  a  battle-field 
looked  like  in  1870-71,  and,  as  though  with 
our  own  eyes,  we  have  watched  the  shells  shat- 
tering human  bodies.  And  another  thing  we 
[24] 


MOBILIZATION 


know  is  that  forty  years  ago  in  spite  of  inferior 
guns  and  rifles,  over  a  hundred  and  twenty 
thousand  dead  stayed  behind  on  the  field  of 
honor.  What  percentage  of  the  Hving  will 
modern  warfare  claim?  Armies  are  being 
marshalled  vaster  than  the  world  has  ever  seen. 
Germany  alone  can  put  six  million  soldiers  in 
the  field;  France  as  many.  Then  the  war  of 
'70-'7i  was  nothing  more  than  a  long-drawn 
affair  of  outposts !  My  brain  reels  when  I  try 
to  visualize  these  masses — starting  to  march 
against  one  another;  I  seem  to  choke  for 
breath. 

Then  are  we  a  breed  of  men  other  than  our 
fathers  ? 

Is  the  reason  because  we  only  have  one  life 
to  lose?  And  do  we  cling  so  passionately  to 
this  life?  Isn't  our  native  land  worth  more 
than  this  scrap  of  life? 

There  probably  won't  be  many  among  us 
who  believe  in  the  Resurrection,  who  believe 
that  our  mangled  bodies  will  rise  again  in  new 
[25] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

splendor.  Nor  do  we  believe  that  our  Father 
in  Heaven  will  have  pleasure  in  our  murder- 
ous doings,  that  in  that  better  world  He  will 
regard  us  other  than  as  our  brothers'  murder- 
ers. But  we  bend  our  heads  before  iron  Neces- 
sity. The  Fatherland  has  called  us,  and  we, 
as  loyal  sons,  obey  the  command  there  is  no 
evading,  submissively.  .  .  .  From  today  on- 
ward we  belong  to  our  native  land,  so  the 
Major  shouted  a  minute  ago  as  he  read  out  the 
articles  of  war. 

And  it's  going  to  be  the  real  thing  this  time. 

The  Sergeant-Major  has  already  read  the 
roll  and  checked  it.  We  are  already  told  off 
in  fours.  Now,  in  a  long  column,  we  are 
marching  across  the  barrack-yard,  for  this 
very  day  we  are  ordered  to  doff  our  civilian 
dress,  and  don  our  new  kit.  This  very  day 
we  have  got  to  become  soldiers. 

Things  are  moving  apace  with  us  now. 


[26] 


CHAPTER  II 

SOLDIER 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day,  the 
company  is  detailed  for  barrack  drill.  We  are 
lying  on  our  stomachs  in  the  barrack-yard,  and 
are  being  drilled  in  taking  aim  and  firing  lying 
down. 

I  have  just  been  sighting. 

In  front  of  me  on  the  barrack  wall  over 
there  they  have  painted  targets.  Ring  targets, 
head  targets,  chest  targets.  Three  hundred 
yards.  I  take  pointblank  aim,  and  press  the 
trigger.  "Square  in  the  chest."  That  ought 
to  count  as  a  bull's-eye. 

Wonder  how  many  clips  of  cartridges  am  I 
going  to  get  through? 

Wonder  if  there  will  be  a  bull's-eye  among 
them? 

If  every  man  of  those  millions  they  are  put- 
ting into  the  field  against  the  enemy  fires  about 
a  hundred  cartridges,  and  there  is  one  bull's- 
[27] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

eye  in  every  hundred,  that  works  out  at  .  .  . 
that  amounts  to  .  .  .  and  I  can't  help  smiling 
at  this  neat  sum  in  arithmetic  .  .  .  then  the 
answer  is  no  one  at  all.  That  is  a  merry 
sum. 

Snick ! 

The  fifth  cartridge  tumbles  out. 

I  ram  in  another  clip  of  dummy  cartridges. 

How  quickly  and  smoothly  that's  done.  One 
— two  seconds,  and  five  cartridges  are  set  in 
your  magazine.  Every  one  of  them,  if  need 
be,  can  penetrate  six  men;  it  can  penetrate 
palisades  and  trees;  it  can  penetrate  earth- 
works and  stone  walls.  There  is  practically 
no  cover  left  against  this  dainty  little  missile, 
against  this  little  pointed  cone. 

And  what  a  wonderful  bit  of  mechanism  this 
Mauser  rifle  is.  How  wretchedly  badly  off 
they  were  in  1870-71  with  their  rattletrap 
needle  guns.  A  single  feeble  bullet  at  a  time, 
and  after  you  had  fired  it  came  the  long,  com- 
plicated business  of  reloading. 
[28] 


SOLDIER 

And  yet  the  war  accounted  for  well  over  a 
hundred  thousand  French  and  German  dead. 

I  wonder  how  many  dead  this  war  will  ac 
count  for?    If  only  every  fifth  man  is  left  on 
the  field,  and  if  another  fifth  comes  home  in- 
valided .  .  .  what  will  its  harvest  amount  to 
then? 

The  whole  of  both  countrysides  are  at  this 
moment  covered  with  soldiers  lying  flat,  and 
all  of  them  with  their  rifles  at  the  ready,  and 
all  of  them  pointing  the  death-bearing  barrels 
at  one  another,  are  perfecting  themselves  in  the 
art  of  hitting  the  heart. 

But  behind  them  the  guns  are  swinging  up. 
The  gunners  are  jumping  down  and  dragging 
the  trail  round.  They  are  already  aligned,  and 
a  thousand  black  mouths  are  gaping  uncannily 
toward  the  heavens. 

We  were  once  standing — we  were  in  camp 
for  musketry  training  at  the  time — and  watch- 
ing  a   battery   firing   with   live    ammunition. 
They  had  unlimbered  and  were  ready  to  fire. 
[29] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

The  officers  were  peering  into  the  distance 
through  their  field-glasses.  The  targets  were 
not  as  yet  in  sight.  We  were  all  gazing  in- 
tently toward  the  firing  zone,  where  at  any 
moment  something  might  come  into  view.  .  .  . 
There!  Away  over  there.  In  the  distance. 
Something  is  moving! 

A  shout  of  command. 
•    The  subaltern  points  to  the  moving  target 
with  his  right  hand.    He  shouts  out  the  range. 
The  gunners  take  aim,  and: 

"Ready!  No.  i  gun.     Fire!" 

The  missile  is  already  a-wing,  and  for  the 
space  of  a  moment  we  feel  the  iron  messenger 
flitting  past.  The  air  is  a-hum.  Boom — and 
a  thousand  yards  in  front  of  us  the  shell  has 
exploded  above  the  cavalry  riding  to  the  at- 
tack, and  has  spattered  its  rain  of  lead  over  the 
blue  targets.    And  then  Nos.  2,  3,  4,  5  and  6. 

The  next  target  was  about  a  mile  away,  and 
the    new    range    quickly    found.     Again    the 
strange   missile    sped    away    and   covered    its 
[30] 


SOLDIER 

measured  course.  It  was  a  thing  to  marvel  at, 
to  see  how  it  checked  in  the  air  of  its  own 
volition  and  burst.  It  seemed  as  though  each 
one  of  these  iron  cylinders  had  a  brain — as  if 
it  were  endowed  with  life  and  consciousness — 
so  certainly  did  it  fina  its  billet. 

And  when  the  battery  had  ceased  firing  and 
had  limbered  up,  and  the  danger  cone  had  been 
pulled  down,  we  went  out  into  the  field  of  fire. 
There  the  linked  targets  under  fire  were  lying. 
They  had  been  struck  down  by  the  shrapnel — 
all,  the  whole  line.  Head,  body,  limbs; — we 
did  not  find  a  single  figure  there  that  had  not 
been  drilled  through  and  through.  We  stood 
and  marvelled  at  the  accuracy  of  it,  and  with 
a  silent  shudder  thought  of  targets  other  than 
contraptions  of  laths  and  canvas. 

Wonder  whether  they  have  engines  of  such 
perfect  precision  on  the  other  side? 

How  the  experts  have,  day  in,  day  out,  been 
inventing  and  constructing  new  marvels  of 
mechanism.  The  mechanical  side  of  war  has 
[31] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

been  raised  to  a  high  standard  of  genius  and 
a  fine  art.   Two  hundred  and  forty  bullets  and 
more  to  the  minute !    What  a  marvel  of  mecha- 
nism one  of  those  machine-guns  is.     You  set 
it  buzzing,  and  it  spurts  out  bullets  thicker 
than  rain  can  fall.     And  the  automaton  licks 
its  lips  hungrily  and  sweeps  from  right  to  left. 
It  is  pointed  on  the  middle  of  the  body,  and 
sprays  the  whole  firing-line  with  one  sweep. 
It  is  as  though  Death  had  scrapped  his  scythe 
for  old  iron ;  as  if  nowadays  he  had  graduated 
as  expert  mechanic.    They  have  ceased  to  mow 
corn  by  hand  nowadays.     By  this  time  of  day 
even  the  sheaves  are  gathered  up  by  machinery. 
And  so  they  will  have  to  shovel  our  millions 
of  bodies  underground  with  burying  machines. 
Curse!    I   cannot  get   rid  of   this   hideous 
thought.    It  is  always  cropping  up  again.   We 
have    passed    on    from    retail    to    wholesale 
methods  of  business.    In  place  of  the  loom  at 
which  you  sat  working  with  your  own  hands, 
they  have  now  set  the  great  power-looms  in 
[32] 


SOLDIER 

motion.  Once  it  was  a  knightly  death,  an 
honorable  soldier's  death;  now  it  is  death  by 
machinery. 

That  is  what  is  sticking  in  my  gullet.  We 
are  being  hustled  from  life  to  death  by  experts 
— ^by  mechanicians.  And  just  as  they  turn 
out  buttons  and  pins  by  wholesale  methods  of 
production,  so  they  are  now  turning  out  the 
crippled  and  the  dead  by  machinery.  Why  do 
I,  all  of  a  sudden,  begin  to  shudder?  I  feel 
as  if  it  had  suddenly  become  clear  as  daylight 
that  this  is  madness — blood-red  madness  low- 
ering for  us  there. 

Curse!  I  must  not  go  on  brooding  over  it 
any  longer,  or  it  will  drive  me  mad.  Your 
rifle  at  the  ready!  The  enemy  is  facing  you! 
Has  that  ceased  to  be  a  case  of  man  to  man? 
What  does  it  matter  even  if  the  bullet  finds  its 
billet  more  surely?  Aim  steadily — straight 
for  the  chest.  .  .  .  Who  is  it  really  facing  me? 
The  man  I  am  now  going  to  shoot  dead !  An 
enemy?    What  is  an  enemy? 

[33] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

And  again  I   see  myself  on  that  glorious 
morning  of  my  holidays,  at  a  French  railway 
station,  and  again  I  am  gazing  curiously  out 
of   the   window.     A    foreign   country    and   a 
stranger-people.     The  moment  for   departure 
has  come.     The  station-master  is  just  giving 
the  signal.     Then  a  little  old  woman  extends 
her  trembling  hand  to  the  window,  and  a  fine 
young  fellow  in  our  carriage  takes  the  wrinkled 
hand  and  strokes   it,  until  the  old   woman's 
tears  course  down  her  motherly  cheeks.     Not 
a  word  does  she  speak.    She  only  looks  at  her 
boy,  and  the  lad  gazes  down  on  his  mother. 
Then   it   flashes   upon   me   like   a   revelation. 
Foreigners  can  shed  tears.    Why,  that  is  just 
the  same  thing  it  is  with  us.    They  weep  when 
they  take  leave  of  one  another.     They  love 
one  another  and  feel  grief.  .  .  .  And  as  the 
train  rolled  out  of  the  station,  I  kept  on  look- 
ing out  of  the  window  and   seeing  the  old 
woman  standing  on  the  platform  so  desolately, 
and  gazing  after  the  train  without  stirring. 
[34] 


SOLDIER 

I  could  not  help  thinking  of  my  own  mother. 
It  was  I  myself  who  was  saying  good-by  there, 
and  on  the  platform  yonder  my  poor  old 
mother  was  in  tears.  Pocket-handkerchiefs 
were  floating  in  the  breeze.  They  were  wav- 
ing their  hands,  and  I  waved  mine  too;  for  I, 
too,  was  one  who  belonged  to  her.  .  .  . 

And  again  I  put  my  rifle  to  my  shoulder, 
and  take  aim  for  the  centre  of  the  target. 

I  will  not  go  on  torturing  myself  with  these 
thoughts. 

The  target  seems  to  have  been  moved  nearer 
to  me. 

Of  a  sudden  it  seems  to  me  as  if  the  blue- 
painted  figure  had  stepped  out  of  its  white 
square.  I  gape  at  it.  I  distinctly  see  a  face 
in  front  of  me.  I  have  got  my  finger  on  the 
trigger,  and  feel  the  tension  of  the  pressure. 
Why  don't  I  pull  it  through?  My  finger  is 
trembling.  .  .  .  Now,  now,  I  recognize  the 
face.  That  is  the  young  fellow  at  Nancy  who 
was  saying  good-by  to  his  mother.  .  .  . 
[35] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

Then  the  spring  gives,  and  the  great  horror 
masters  me,  for  I  have  fired  straight  into  a 
living  face.  Murderer!  Murderer!  You 
have  shot  the  only  son  of  his  mother  dead. 
Thou  art  thy  brother's  murderer.  .  .  . 

I  take  a  hold  on  myself.  I  pull  myself  to- 
gether.   A  murderer? 

Folly!     A  spook! 

You  are  a  soldier. 

Soldiers  cease  to  be  human  beings.  The 
Fatherland  is  at  stake. 

And  without  turning  a  hair  I  take  aim  at 
the  enemy.     If  you  miss  him  he  will  get  you. 

"Got  him!     In  the  middle  of  the  chest." 


[36] 


CHAPTER  III 

OUR  FATHER  WHICH  ART  IN  HEAVEN 

We  rejoined  the  Colors  on  Friday.  On  Mon- 
day we  are  to  move  out.  Today,  being  Sun- 
day, is  full-dress  Church  Parade. 

I  slept  badly  last  night,  and  am  feeling  un- 
easy and  limp. 

And  now  we  are  sitting  close-packed  in 
church. 

The  organ  is  playing  a  voluntary. 

I  am  leaning  back  and  straining  my  ears  for 
the  sounds  in  the  dim  twilight  of  the  building. 
Childhood's  days  rise  before  my  eyes  again. 
I  am  watching  a  little  solemn-faced  boy  sitting 
crouched  in  a  corner  and  listening  to  the  divine 
service.  The  priest  is  standing  in  front  of  the 
altar,  and  is  intoning  the  Exhortation  de- 
voutly. The  choir  in  the  gallery  is  chanting 
the  responses.  The  organ  thunders  out  and 
floods  through  the  building  majestically.    I  am 

[37] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

rapt  in  an  ecstasy  of  sweet  terror,  for  the  Lord 
God  is  coming  down  upon  us.  He  is  standing 
before  me  and  touching  my  body,  so  that  I 
have  to  close  my  eyes  in  a  terror  of  shudder- 
ing ecstasy.  .  .  . 

That  is  long,  long  ago,  and  is  all  past  and 
done  with,  as  youth  itself  is  past  and  done 
with.  .  .  . 

Strange !  After  all  these  years  of  doubt  and 
unbelief,  at  this  moment  of  lucid  conscious- 
ness, the  atmosphere  of  devoutness,  long  since 
dead,  possesses  me,  and  thrills  me  so  passion- 
ately that  I  can  hardly  resist  it.  This  is  the 
same  heavy  twilight — these  are  the  same 
yearning  angel  voices — the  same  fearful  sense 
of  rapture 

I  pull  myself  together,  and  sit  bolt  upright 
on  the  hard  wooden  pew. 

In  the  main  and  the  side  aisles  below,  and  in 
the  galleries  above,  nothing  but  soldiers  in  uni- 
form, and  all,  with  level  faces,  turned  toward 
the  altar,  toward  that  pale  man  in  his  long 
[38] 


OUR  FATHER  WHICH  ART  IN  HEAVEN 

dignified  black  gown,  toward  that  sonorous, 
unctuous  mouth,  from  whose  Hps  flows  the 
name  of  God. 

Look!  He  is  now  stretching  forth  his 
hands.  We  incline  our  heads.  He  is  pro- 
nouncing the  Benediction  over  us  in  a  voice 
that  echoes  from  the  tomb.  He  is  blessing  us 
in  the  name  of  God,  the  Merciful.  He  is  bless- 
ing our  rifles  that  they  may  not  fail  us;  he  is 
blessing  the  wire-drawn  guns  on  their  patent 
recoilless  carriages;  he  is  blessing  every  pre- 
cious cartridge,  lest  a  single  bullet  be  wasted, 
lest  any  pass  idly  through  the  air;  that  each 
one  may  account  for  a  hundred  human  beings, 
may  shatter  a  hundred  human  beings  simul- 
taneously. 

Father  in  Heaven!  Thou  art  gazing  down 
at  us  in  such  terrible  silence.  Dost  Thou  shud- 
der at  these  sons  of  men?  Thou  poor  and 
slight  God!  Thou  couldst  only  rain  Thy 
paltry  pitch  and  sulphur  on  Sodom  and  Go- 
morrah.    But  .we.  Thy  children,  whom  Thou 

[39] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

hast  created,  we  are  going  to  exterminate  them 
by  high-pressure  machinery,  and  butcher  whole 
cities  in  factories.  Here  we  stand,  and  while 
we  stretch  our  hands  to  Thy  Son  in  prayer, 
and  cry  Hosannah !  we  are  hurling  shells  and 
shrapnel  in  the  face  of  Thy  Image,  and  shoot- 
ing the  Son  of  Man  down  from  His  Cross  like 
a  target  at  the  rifle-butts. 

And  now  the  Holy  Communion  is  being  cele- 
brated. The  organ  is  playing  mysteriously 
from  afar  off,  and  the  flesh  and  blood  of  the 
Redeemer  is  mingling  with  our  flesh  and  blood. 

There  He  is  hanging  on  the  Cross  above  me, 
and  gazing  down  upon  me. 

How  pale  these  cheeks  look!  And  these 
eyes  are  the  eyes  as  of  one  dead!  Who  was 
this  Christ  Who  is  to  aid  us,  and  Whose  blood 
we  drink?  What  was  it  they  once  taught  us 
at  school?  Didst  Thou  not  love  mankind? 
And  didst  Thou  not  die  for  the  whole  human 
race?  Stretch  out  Thine  arms  toward  me. 
There  is  something  I  would  fain  ask  of  Thee. 
[40] 


OUR  FATHER  WHICH  ART  IN  HEAVEN 

.  .  .  Ah!  they  have  nailed  Thy  arms  to  the 
Cross,  so  that  Thou  canst  not  stretch  out  a 
finger  toward  us. 

Shuddering,  I  fix  my  eyes  on  the  corpse- 
Hke  face  and  see  that  He  has  died  long  ago, 
that  He  is  nothing  more  than  wood,  nothing 
other  than  a  puppet.  Christ,  it  is  no  longer 
Thee  to  whom  we  pray.  Look  there!  Look 
there!  It  is  he.  The  new  patron  saint  of  a 
Christian  State!  Look  there!  It  is  he,  the 
great  Djengis  Khan.  Of  him  we  know  that 
he  swept  through  the  history  of  the  world  with 
fire  and  sword,  and  piled  up  pyramids  of 
skulls.  Yes,  that  is  he.  Let  us  heap  up  moun- 
tains of  human  heads,  and  pile  up  heaps  of  hu- 
man entrails.  Great  Djengis  Khan !  Thou, 
our  patron  saint!  Do  thou  bless  us!  Pray  to 
thy  blood-drenched  father  seated  above  the 
skies  of  Asia,  that  he  may  sweep  with  us 
through  the  clouds;  that  he  may  strike  down 
that  accursed  nation  till  it  writhes  in  its  blood, 
till  it  never  can  rise  again.  A  red  mist  swims 
[41] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

before  my  eyes.  Of  a  sudden  I  see  nothing 
but  blood  before  me.  The  heavens  have 
opened,  and  the  red  flood  pours  in  through  the 
windows.  Blood  wells  up  on  the  altar.  The 
walls  run  blood  from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor, 
and — God  the  Father  steps  out  of  the  blood. 
Every  scale  of  his  skin  stands  erect,  his  beard 
and  hair  drip  blood.  A  giant  of  blood  stands 
before  me.  He  seats  himself  backward  on  the 
altar,  and  is  laughing  from  thick,  coarse  lips — 
there  sits  the  King  of  Dahomey  and  butchers 
his  slaves.  The  black  executioner  raises  his 
sword  and  whirls  it  above  my  head.  Another 
moment  and  my  head  will  roll  down  on  the 
floor — another  moment  and  the  red  jet  will 
spurt  from  my  neck.  .  .  Murderers,  Murder- 
ers !  None  other  than  Murderers !  Lord  God 
in  Heaven! 

Then — 

the  church  door  opens  creaking — 

Light,  air,  the  blue  of  heaven,  burst  in. 

I  draw  a  breath  of  relief.  We  have  risen  to 
[42] 


OUR  FATHER  WHICH  ART  IN  HEAVEN 

our  feet,  and  at  length  pass  out  of  the  twilight 
into  the  open  air. 

My  knees  are  still  trembling  under  me. 

We  fall  into  line,  and  in  our  hob-nailed 
boots  tramp  in  step  down  the  street  toward  the 
barracks.  When  I  see  my  mates  marching  be- 
side me  in  their  matter-of-fact  and  stolid  way, 
I  feel  ashamed,  and  call  myself  a  wretched 
coward.  What  a  weak-nerved,  hysterical 
breed,  that  can  no  longer  look  at  blood  without 
fainting!  You  neurasthenic  offspring  of  your 
sturdy  peasant  forbears,  who  shouted  for  joy 
when  they  went  out  to  fight! 

I  pull  myself  together  and  throw  my  head 
back. 

I  never  was  a  coward,  and  eye  for  eye  I 
have  always  looked  my  man  in  the  face,  and 
will  do  so  this  time,  too,  happen  what  may. 


[43] 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  LAST   NIGHT 

I  AM  lying  in  bed,  and  counting  a  hundred 
slowly.  It  must  be  close  on  midnight  now, 
and  I  am  still  unable  to  get  to  sleep. 

The  room  resounds  to  the  noise  of  snoring. 
They  are  lying  to  the  right  and  left  of  me,  and 
if  I  turn  over  on  my  back,  I  am  staring  up  at 
the  wooden  planking  of  a  bed.  For  the  cots 
extend  all  along  the  wall  from  door  to  win- 
dow, one  above  the  other,  and  in  every  cot  a 
soldier  is  lying  asleep. 

Now  and  again  one  or  other  tosses  about, 
and  rolls  heavily  over  to  the  other  side. 

Further  away,  near  the  window,  some  one 
is  mumbling  in  his  sleep.  Suddenly  he  shouts 
out  aloud:  "And  that  wasn't  me.  I  ain't 
touched  a  bit  of  the  wire.  D'you  take  me  for 
a  thief?" 

It  sounds  exactly  as  if  he  were  wide-awake. 
I  am  on  the  point  of  speaking  to  him.    Then 
[44] 


THE  LAST  NIGHT 


all  is  silence  again,  and  I  lie  listening  intently 
for  what  is  going  to  happen  next.  But  he 
keeps  quiet,  and  goes  on  dreaming.  He  is  still 
in  the  midst  of  his  workshop;  yet  tomorrow 
he  is  going  to  be  carted  out  to  war. 

And  nothing  but  sleeping  and  snoring  men 
all  round  me. 

Wonder  if  any  one  else  in  barracks  is  lying 
wide-eyed  and  staring  into  the  future? 

My  thoughts  flit  homeward.  Wonder 
whether  she  slept  well  tonight?  Wonder  if 
she  has  chanced  to  be  thinking  of  me?  Won- 
der how  the  little  chap  is  getting  on?  His 
teeth  were  giving  him  trouble.  ...  It  is  not 
good  to  marry  so  young;  the  unmarried  men 
who  are  called  out  now  are  better  off.  Won- 
der whether  the  war  will  last  long?  We  have 
put  by  a  little  nest-egg.  But  what's  the  good 
of  that  in  these  times  of  famine  prices?  The 
allowance  for  wife  and  children  is  so  small 
that  it  won't  even  cover  rent.  Where's  she  to 
turn  for  money  when  the  post-office  savings 

[45] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

book  is  finished  ?  She  will  have  to  go  out  sew- 
ing. But  what's  to  happen  when  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  others  have  to  go  out  sewing  too  ? 
Well,  then  she  will  have  to  start  a  little  busi- 
ness, open  a  greengrocer's  shop.  But  what's 
to  happen  when  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
others  have  to  start  a  shop? 

The  State  is  taking  charge  of  your  wives 
and  children,  that's  what  it  said  in  the  regi- 
mental orders  yesterday.  Well,  there  is  no  use 
in  imagining  the  very  worst  at  the  start.  The 
war  may  be  over  quickly.  Perhaps  it  will 
never  get  as  far  as  big  battles.  Perhaps  they 
will  think  better  of  it,  and  give  way  yet. 

And  then  my  mind  feels  at  ease  again.  In 
spirit  I  see  myself  back  again  at  my  office- 
desk  and  writing  invoices.  A  glance  at  the 
clock — it's  close  on  the  hour — only  a  few  more 
strokes  of  the  pen.  So  let's  finish  up  quickly. 
Let's  hang  up  our  office  coat  on  the  nail  and 
slip  into  another.  And  then  get  out  into  the 
street,  for  Dora  must  be  waiting  supper. 
[46] 


THE  LAST  NIGHT 


By  this  time  we  have  already  reached  the 
bridge  by  the  Town  Hall,  with  the  two  big 
triple  lamps.  .  .  .  Who  is  standing  there  by  the 
railing  of  the  bridge,  and  gazing  down  into  the 
canal  so  motionlessly  ?  It's  a  woman.  She 
must  have  run  straight  out  of  the  kitchen,  for 
her  apron-strings  are  hanging  to  the  ground 
behind  her  anyhow.  And  all  of  a  sudden  her 
red-striped  skirt  strikes  me  as  so  familiar,  and 
as  I  pass  behind  her  she  turns  round  without  a 
word,  and  looks  at  me  wild-eyed. 

"Dora,  is  that  you?" 

Then  she  bows  her  face.,  streaming  with 
tears,  and  says  dully  to  herself: 

"They  have  shot  my  husband  dead.'* 

"But,  Dora,"  I  shout  to  her  anxiously — for 
it  suddenly  flashes  upon  me  that  she  is  ill — 
"why,  here  I  am!  Don't  you  know  me  any 
more?" 

But  she  shakes  her  head,  and  turns  away 
from  me  comfortless,  and  passes  me  by  like  a 
stranger. 

[47] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

"Dora !"  I  shout  aloud,  "Dora !"  and  stretch 
out  my  arms  toward  the  vanishing  figure.  A 
sob  chokes  my  throat.  .  .  . 

Then  I  start,  and  am  sitting  up  in  bed,  rest- 
ing on  my  elbow.  Through  the  window 
sounds  the  long-drawn  reveille.  Dawn  is 
peeping  through  the  panes. 

So  I  did  nod  off  after  all,  and  I  did  not  have 
a  pleasant  dream.  But  I  have  no  time  to  be 
grumpy  over  it,  for  footsteps  are  ringing  along 
the  corridor.  Hobnail  boots  clatter  across  the 
floor.    The  door  is  flung  open. 

"Turn  out !"  a  cheery  voice  shouts  in. 

It  is  the  sergeant  on  duty.  By  this  time  he 
has  already  reached  the  next  door.  And  sleepy 
figures  are  rising  from  their  cots,  yawning  and 
stretching  their  arms ;  are  turning  out  and  slip- 
ping, shivering  with  cold,  into  their  clothes. 
Yawning,  they  stretch  their  limbs  and  flap 
their  arms  until  the  second  more  welcome 
morning  signal,  "Breakfast  rations,"  lends  life 
and  animation  to  fasting  men. 
[48] 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  DEPARTURE 

We  are  already  drawn  up  in  the  barrack-yard 
in  service  kit.  We  have  stacked  our  rifles  and 
have  fallen  out.  No  one  thinks  of  kit  inspec- 
tion or  anything  of  that  kind  today.  Every- 
thing is  now  being  pushed  on  at  racing  pace. 

"Fall  in!" 

"Stand  by  your  packs!" 

How  heavy  the  full  knapsack  weighs  In  one's 
hands,  and  yet  as  soon  as  it  is  settled  in  the 
small  of  your  back  you  do  not  notice  it  so  very 
much. 

"Stand  by  arms!" 

"Slope  arms!" 

As  if  we  were  marching  out  for  parade,  the 
Captain's  orders  sound  as  crisp  as  that.  We 
shoulder  arms  as  smartly  as  if  we  were  moving 
out  on  parade. 

[49] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

"Form  sections!  Right  about  turn!  Quick 
march !" 

And  we  swing  round  smartly  in  four  at  the 
command. 

"Fifth,  sixth,  seventh,  eighth  company!" 
shouts  the  Major,  who  has  pulled  up  in  the 
middle  of  the  yard. 

We  are  the  eighth  company,  and  are  fol- 
lowing on  the  heels  of  the  seventh.  The  gates 
of  the  barrack-yard  are  open.  We  are  march- 
ing out.  Our  legs  mark  time  on  the  pavement 
of  the  street  in  the  goose-step  of  grand  parade. 

"March  at  ease !" 

And  the  muscles  of  our  legs  relax  and  ad- 
vance at  more  natural  gait. 

The  streets  are  full  of  people.  They  are 
lining  the  pavement  on  both  sides  and  watch- 
ing us  march  past.  Though  it  is  still  quite  an 
early  hour  of  the  morning,  yet  the  whole  town 
is  up  and  about.  They  weren't  able  to  stay 
abed.  They  wanted  to  see  the  soldiers  march 
out. 

[50] 


THE  DEPARTURE 


And  they  welcome  us  with  their  eyes  and 
wave  their  hands  to  us. 

A  fifteen-year-old  lad  is  running  along  be- 
side us.    His  brother  is  marching  in  our  file. 

"Mother  sends  you  her  love;  she  says  she  is 
feeling  better  again — but  she  wasn't  well 
enough  to  get  up  yet,  else  she'd  have  come  with 
me  this  morning — but  I  was  to  give  you  this 
from  her." 

And  the  lad  stretches  his  open  hand  out  to 
his  brother,  and  tries  to  hand  him  something 
wrapped  up  in  paper — money !  But  the  elder 
brother  waves  it  aside. 

"Put  it  away.  Tell  her  I  said  she  was  to 
spend  it  on  herself,  and  to  look  after  herself 
properly,  and  be  well  and  fit  when  we  come 
back  again." 

Reluctantly  the  lad  puts  the  money  in  his 
pocket. 

A  little  ahead  of  us  a  young  woman  is  trip- 
ping alongside.     We  have  set  a  pretty  smart 
pace,  and  she  has  to  break  into  a  run  to  keep 
[51] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

up.  But  though  her  feet  may  stumble  over  the 
uneven  pavement  she  never  turns  her  eyes  from 
her  husband.  What  they  may  have  to  say  to 
each  other  at  the  very  last  moment  we  can't 
catch.  But  we  catch  the  expression  of  her 
face,  and  her  comically  touching  devotion. 

And  now  the  crowds  accompanying  their 
soldiers  through  the  streets  become  denser  and 
denser.  A  few  folk  who  are  seeing  members 
of  their  family  off  are  running  beside  every 
section.  White-haired  fathers  and  mothers, 
with  anxious  looks,  sisters,  sweethearts,  wives. 

There  is  one  among  them  of  whom  you  can 
tell  at  a  glance  that  she  is  about  to  become 
a  mother.  Well,  she  will  be  brought  to  bed 
lonely  and  desolate. 

The  man  marching  on  my  right,  a  taciturn 
yokel,  who  until  now  has  been  staring  gloom- 
ily straight  ahead  of  him,  half  turns  to  me. 

"How  many  kids  are  there  under  way  that'll 
never  come  to  see  their  dads?" 

And  then  he  thaws,  and  begins  to  talk  about 
[52] 


THE  DEPARTURE 


his  brother,  who  had  to  leave  with  the  Army 
Service  Corps  two  days  before,  and  he  was 
called  on  the  Colors  the  very  same  day  his  wife 
was  brought  to  bed,  so  that  he  had  to  leave  her 
before  she  was  out  of  the  wood. 

"Almost  make  you  think  us  wasn't  human 
beings.'* 

The  drums  and  fifes  strike  up  briskly,  and 
play  a  merry  march. 

Some  one  or  other,  somewhere  in  the  crowd, 
sets  up  a  loud,  crowing  sort  of  cheer. 

"Hip!  hip!  hooray!" 

And  the  others  join  in.  It  spreads  all  down 
the  whole  length  of  the  street,  and  does  not 
die  down  again.  But  it  leaves  my  yokel  un- 
moved. 

"What's  the  good  of  that  how-d'ye-do? 
Folks  are  fair  crazed.  There  is  no  sense  in 
it." 

I  glance  at  him  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye. 
He  is  impenetrably  rapt  in  his  own  gloomy  re- 
flections.    Then  he  begins  again. 

[53] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

"Ah've  left  a  wife  and  three  kids  to  home. 
They're  to  get  a  few  pence  a  day,  the  lot,  and 
nought  more.  And  that's  what  four  people 
have  got  to  live  on." 

Some  one  tries  to  cheer  him  up. 

"Then  some  one  else'll  turn  up  who'll  look 
after  'em !" 

"What  others?"  comes  the  answer  in  a  deep 
growl.  "They'll  have  their  hands  full  looking 
after  theirselves.  By  the  time  I  get  home 
they'll  have  kicked  the  bucket,  the  whole  lot 
of  'em.  The  best  thing'd  be  never  to  come 
home  no  more." 

Then  the  big  drum  breaks  into  his  com- 
plaint. A  dull  reverberating  throb.  It  is  to 
usher  in  the  regimental  band,  and  orders  the 
drums  and  the  fifes  to  desist. 

And  then  again,  deep  and  monitory. 

Boom ! 

The  pipers  begin  to  play  the  regimental 
march. 

And  now — the  regimental  band  strikes  up. 

[54] 


THE  DEPARTURE 


You  may  kick  against  it  as  you  will.  The 
martial  strain  infects  the  excited  streets,  trum- 
pets back  from  a  wall  of  houses,  stirs  the  blood 
so  joyously,  and  exorcises  the  spectres  of  the 
night  from  your  brain.  Your  muscles  stiffen, 
you  throw  your  head  up,  and  your  legs  strut 
along  proudly  to  keep  step  and  time.  And 
the  rhythm  of  step  and  time  infects  the  whole 
crowd.  The  effect  on  the  crowd  is  electric. 
They  are  waving  their  hands  from  the  pave- 
ments; they  are  waving  their  hands  from  the 
windows;  they  are  waving  their  hands  from 
the  balconies.  The  air  is  white  with  pocket- 
handkerchiefs.  And  now  some  one  in  front 
begins  to  sing.  They  are  shouting  and  sing- 
ing against  one  another.  The  tune  gains 
strength  until  it  has  fought  its  way  through, 
and  swirls  above  our  heads  like  the  wind  be- 
fore a  storm. 

The  National  Anthem! 

The  whole  street  is  taking  it  up. 

The  regimental  band  has  capitulated  to  the 
[55] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

song  that  carries  every  one  away  with  it.  And 
then  it  solemnly  joins  in. 

The  crowds  bare  their  heads.  We  can  see 
nothing  except  glowing  faces,  figures  march- 
ing under  a  spell,  a  nation  afire  and  kindled  to 
enthusiasm. 

We  march  through  the  town  singing  ec- 
statically until  we  reach  the  station,  until  we  at 
length  come  to  a  standstill  on  the  platform 
reserved  for  us.  The  train  is  already  stand- 
ing there. 

The  bridge,  beyond,  leading  over  the  rails 
is  black  with  people  shouting  and  waving  down 
to  us. 

We  are  already  told  off. 

Eight  men  to  the  compartment. 

"Tara,  tata!"  The  bugle  calls  us  to  entrain, 
and  the  doors  are  thrown  open.  We  have 
scarcely  stacked  our  packs  and  rifles,  and 
donned  our  caps  when  the  engine  starts,  and 
amid  thunderous  cheers  we  slide  out  of  the 
station,  and  leave  behind  us  a  distant,  fading 
[56] 


THE  DEPARTURE 


roar,  a  dying  hum — the  town  shouting  her  last 
farewell  to  her  soldiers. 

We  make  ourselves  comfortable.  We  are 
sitting  and  smoking  our  pipes.  Three,  unable 
to  change  all  at  once,  have  already  started  a 
game  of  cards.  Two  more  are  sitting  in  the 
corner  and  putting  their  heads  together.  The 
yokel  is  by  himself,  and  shows  no  interest  in 
anything. 

I  am  looking  out  of  the  window,  watching 
the  landscape  fly  past  my  eyes.  The  rejoicings 
are  still  hot  in  my  blood.  I  have  lived  to  see 
a  great  day.  Wherever  the  bulk  of  the  people 
rises  above  the  dust  of  every  day  it  becomes 
irresistible,  and  carries  away  with  it  even  the 
man  who  would  fain  stand  aloof,  and  keep  his 
head  cool. 

And  we  hurry  past  forests  and  rivers,  past 
meadows  whose  extent  I  cannot  see,  past  hills 
that  fade  away  into  the  blue  of  distance,  past 
an  immeasurably  rich  country  that  stands 
golden  in  its  ears  of  corn. 

[57] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

And  over  it  all  shines  the  sun  of  one's  native 
land. 

And  I  would  fain  spread  out  my  arms. 

Yes,  our  native  land  is  fair  and  great,  and 
worthy  that  a  man  should  shed  his  blood 
for  it. 


158]  I 


•3" 


CHAPTER  VI 

LIKE  THE  PROMISE  OF  MAY 

We  have  turned  off  the  main  road,  and  have 
to  march  over  a  field  of  stubble.  A  battle  was 
fought  here  yesterday,  for  the  field  is  sown 
with  dead  bodies.  They  have  picked  up  the 
wounded.  But  as  yet  they  have  had  no  time 
to  bury  those  who  died  where  they  fell. 

The  first  dead  man  we  saw  struck  us  dumb. 
At  first  we  hardly  realized  what  it  meant — this 
lifeless  new  uniform  spread  out  there — from 
the  way  he  was  lying  you  could  hardly  believe 
he  was  really  dead.  It  gave  you  a  prickly  feel- 
ing on  the  tongue.  It  seemed  as  if  you  were 
on  manoeuvres,  and  the  fellow  lying  there  in 
a  ditch  had  got  a  touch  of  the  sun.  A  rough 
soldierly  jest,  a  cheery  shout  was  all  that  was 
wanted  to  raise  him  to  his  ramshackle  legs. 

"Hullo,  you!  Got  a  head?  Keep  a  stiff 
neck." 

But  the  words  froze  in  our  throat,  for  an 

[59] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

icy  breath  was  wafted  to  us  from  the  dead 
man,  and  a  chill  hand  clutched  at  our  terror- 
stricken  hearts. 

So  that  was  Death !  We  knew  all  about  it 
now.  That  is  what  it  looks  like,  and  we  turned 
our  heads  back  and  shuddered. 

But  then  there  came  more  and  more  of  them. 

And  by  this  time  we  have  become  accus- 
tomed to  them. 

Strange!  I  gaze  at  these  silent  faces  that 
seem  to  laugh  at  us,  at  these  wounds  that  seem 
to  mouth  at  us  fantastically,  as  if  they  had 
nothing  to  do  with  me.  It  strikes  me  all  as  so 
remote,  so  indifferent.  As  if  all  these  dead 
bodies  were  lying  in  glass  cases,  as  if  I  were 
in  an  anatomical  museum,  and  were  staring 
with  dispassionately  curious  eyes  at  some 
scientific  exhibits. 

Sometimes  no  wounds  at  all  are  visible.  The 
bullets  have  passed  through  the  uniforms  some- 
where, and  have  gone  clean  through  the  softer 
parts  of  the  bodies.  ^"^ 

[60] 


LIKE  THE  PROMISE  OF  MAY 

They  have  grown  rigid  in  death  in  grotesque 
postures  as  if  Death  had  been  trying  to  pose 
figures  here.  There  are  certain  schemes  of 
Death  that  are  always  recurring.  Hands  out- 
stretched— fingers    clawing    the    grass — fallen 

forward  on  to  the  face — that  fellow  over  there 
lying  on  his  back  is  holding  his  hand  pressed"" 
tight  against  his  abdomen,  as  iTTie  were  tiy^ 
ing  to  staunch  the  wound. 

In  the  country  I  was  once  watching  them 
killing  sheep.    There  a  beast  lay,  and  was  wait-         ) 
ing  for  the  butcher,  and  as  the  short  knife  cut 
through   its  windpipe  and  jugular  vein,   and       ) 
the  blood  leaped  hot  from  its  neck,  I  could  see     \ 
nothing  but  the  big  eye,  how  it  enlarged  in  its  "^x 
head  to  a  fearsome  stare,  until  at  last  it  turned    ^ 
to  a  dull  glass. 

All  the  bodies  lying  about  here,  as  if  bleat- 
ing up  to  heaven,  have  got  these  glazed  eyes, 
they  are  lying  as  if  they  were  outstretched  in 
the  abattoir.  Well,  to  be  hit  and  to  fall  down 
dead,  there's  nothing  to  make  a  fuss  about 
[6i] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

that!  But  to  be  shot  through  the  chest,  to  be 
shot  through  the  belly,  to  burn  for  hours  in 
the  fever  of  your  wounds,  to  cool  your  man- 
gled body  in  the  wet  grass,  and  to  stare  up  into 
the  pitiless  blue  heavens  because  your  accursed 
eyes  go  on  refusing  to  glaze  over  yet 

I  turn  away  from  them.  I  force  myself  to 
look  past  these  mocking,  grotesque  poses  plas- 
tiques  of  Death. 

And  I  am  already  spirited  far  away,  and 
am  sitting  in  my  little  study  at  home.  My 
cofifee  cup  is  standing  snugly  to  my  hand.  My 
book-case  is  beaming  down  on  me.  My  well- 
loved  books  invite  me,  and  in  front  of  me  my 
book  of  books,  "Faust,"  lies  open.  And  so  I 
read,  and  feel  the  wonderful  relaxation  that 
comes  after  work  stealing  through  my  longing 
blood. 

The  door  opens.  A  little  girl,  and  a  boy 
who  has  just  learned  the  use  of  his  legs,  put 
their  noses  in  at  the  door. 

"Daddy,  may  we?" 

[62] 


LIKE  THE  PROMISE  OF  MAY 

I  nod  consent.  Then  they  spread  out  their 
little  arms,  and  rush  at  me. 

"Daddy!" 

They  are  climbing  on  to  my  knees  now,  and 
I  give  them  a  ride — "this  is  how  we  ride  to 
war." 

But  they  twine  their  soft  arms  round  my 
neck  until  at  length  I  put  them  down  on  the 
floor :  "Now  go  to  Mummy " 

And  now 

A  new  picture.  How  very  plainly  I  see  it. 
We  have  gone  out  of  a  Sunday  afternoon  be- 
yond the  suburbs,  gone  out  with  bag  and  bag- 
gage. I  see  the  green  fields  bright  and  fair, 
and  see  the  two  kiddies  bright  and  fair.  They 
are  rolling  about  in  the  grass  and  chasing  the 
butterflies,  and  laughing  up  at  me,  and  crowing 
with  delight  as  they  run  after  the  ball  I  have 
thrown  down  for  them  to  play  with.  And  the 
sky  stretches  above  us  in  its  Sabbath  blue,  and 
so  confidently  as  if  it  all  could  never  come  to 
an  end.  And  Dora  smiles  at  me  with  quiet  eyes. 
[63] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

Then  I  come  back  with  a  start — I  feel  my 
knapsack  chafing  my  back — I  feel  my  rifle — I 
see  the  dead  at  my  feet  again 

My  God!  how  can  these  things  be?  How 
can  these  two  worlds  be  so  terribly  close  to  each 
other?  ... 

And  we  pass  on  through  this  first  spring 
crop  of  dead  bodies.  No  one  says  a  word.  No 
one  has  a  joke.  How  surreptitiously  the 
others  glance  aside  wheii  some  corpse,  all  too 
grotesquely  mangled,  meets  their  eyes. 

I  wonder  what  is  passing  through  their 
brains  ? 

Working  men,  tradesmen,  artisans,  and 
agricultural  laborers,  that's  what  they  are  for 
the  most  part.  They  themselves  have  as  yet 
never  smelled  powder,  nor  ever  been  under 
fire.  That,  I  suppose,  is  the  reason  why  they 
have  suddenly  become  so  dumb. 

Then    a   voice   beside    me    says    something 
abruptly,  and  it  seems  as  if  the  voice  rebounded 
hollow  from  the  silence. 
[64] 


LIKE  THE  PROMISE  OF  MAY 

"The  stuff  is  laying  about  here  same  as 
muck." 

That  was  my  yokel  beside  me.  Then  he, 
too,  relapses  into  silence,  and  I  feel  as  if  I  could 
read  behind  their  shy  eyes,  as  if  all  that  is  go- 
ing on  in  these  dull  brains  had  suddenly  be- 
come clear  as  daylight. 

They're  all  drawn  from  that  other  world, 
where  Life  kissed  us  and  cozened  caressingly 
round  our  bodies.  You  have  brought  us  up 
as  human  beings.  That  we  have  been  human 
no  longer  counts.  Life  and  love  no  longer 
count;  flesh  and  blood  no  longer  count;  only 
gore  and  corpses  count  for  anything  now. 
How  we  used  to  tremble  in  that  other  world, 
when  a  naked  human  life  was  even  in  danger. 
How  we  rushed  into  the  burning  house  to  drive 
away  the  death  for  which  some  poor  old 
paralyzed  woman  craved.  How  we  plunged 
into  the  wintry  river  to  snatch  a  starved  beg- 
gar brat  from  the  quiet  waters.  We  would 
not  even  suffer  a  man  to  creep  away  out  of 
[65] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

Life  by  stealth  while  we  looked  on.  We  cut 
down  suicides  at  their  last  sob,  and  hustled 
them  back  into  life.  Of  our  mercy  we  set  up 
half-rotted  wastrels  with  new  bodies;  with 
pills,  elixirs  and  medicines,  with  herbalists, 
professors  and  surgeons,  with  cauteries,  ampu- 
tations and  electrotherapy,  we  fanned  the  flick- 
ering life  and  fed  the  sunken  flame  with  oxy- 
gen and  radium  and  all  the  elements.  There 
was  nothing  greater,  nothing  more  sacred  than 
Life.  Life  was  everything  to  us,  was  for  us 
the  most  precious  possession  on  earth. 

And  here  lies  that  most  precious  of  posses- 
sions— here  it  is  lying  wasted  and  used  up — 
spurned  as  the  dust  by  the  roadside — and  we 
are  marching  along  over  it  as  over  dust  and 
stones. 


[66] 


CHAPTER  VII 

BLOOD   AND   IRON 

The  whole  of  that  morning  we  had  been 
marching  in  the  eye  of  the  sun  without  coming 
across  a  drop  of  water,  for  the  country  was  not 
well  watered,  and  there  had  been  no  rain  for 
weeks.  Our  tongues  were  parched ;  our  throats 
were  burning.  When  about  midday  we  passed 
through  a  farmyard,  where  we  found  a  last 
remaining  drop  of  dirty  liquid,  it  seemed  as  if 
the  water  evaporated  on  the  tongue  before  it 
ever  reached  our  throats.  Then  we  had  been 
marched  on  interminably,  so  that  it  was  almost 
with  a  sense  of  relief  that  we  heard  the  first 
sound  of  the  guns  rolling  up  to  meet  us. 

The  firing  grew  hotter,  and  we  soon  left  the 
main  road  and  turned  down  a  lane.  We  were 
pushed  on  at  a  smart  pace.  Our  faces  were 
glowing  from  thirst  and  heat.  The  column 
was  enveloped  in  a  thick  cloud  of  dust.  The 
[67] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

taste  of  dust  instead  of  water  was  on  our 
tongues.  The  dust  was  lying  thick  as  a  layer 
of  flour  on  our  cheeks. 

And  we  hurried  on  without  a  word.  A 
quickset  hedge  barred  the  view  on  either  side. 
Nothing  but  heavy  footfalls,  walking  packs,, 
black,  clattering  pannikins,  rifles  at  the  slope 
— hustle  and  dust.  .  .  .  Then  some  one  blun- 
dered over  a  stone  in  his  way,  and  looked  as 
if  he  were  going  to  fall  into  the  back  of  the 
man  in  front  of  him  .  .  .  but  no  shout  of 
laughter  greets  it — we  are  pushing  on  almost 
at  the  double — at  times,  when  a  gap  in  the 
hedge  slips  past,  we  can  catch  glimpses  of  the 
line  of  skirmishers  advancing  over  open  coun- 
try— now  at  length  comes  a  check.  .  .  .  Halt ! 
Order  arms!  .  .  .  and  I  am  scrambling 
through  a  gap  in  the  hedge  on  to  the  open 
fields  .  .  .  open  order  at  five  paces  distance. 
.  .  .  The  long-drawn  line  of  skirmishers  ad- 
vances, rifles  at  the  ready  ...  in  front  of  us 
nothing  but  green  fields  in  sight.  In  the  heart 
[68] 


BLOOD  AND  IRON 


of  them  gleams  the  crude  yellow  of  a  field  of 
mustard.  Ahead  of  us,  just  opposite  our  front, 
a  dark  wood  .  .  .  not  a  trace  of  the  enemy  in 
sight.  On  our  right  they  have  already  pushed 
on  the  advance  line.  On  our  left  the  skir- 
mishers are  just  breaking  through  the  hedge 
and  opening  out  to  extend  our  line  of  attack. 

The  heavy  noise  in  the  air  is  incessant. 

I  can't  see  where  they  are  firing,  and  I  can't 
see  what  they  are  firing  at.  The  air  is  heavy 
with  iron  thunder.  It  closes  like  a  ring  round 
my  chest.  I  am  distinctly  conscious  that  my 
chest  is  reverberating  like  a  tense  sounding- 
board 

What  on  earth  is  that? 

A  sound  like  the  cracking  of  whips  from 
somewhere  or  other  .  .  .  the  sound  is  so 
sharp,  so  distant,  so  intermittent,  as  if  it  were 
coming  from  the  rifle-range.  .  .  . 

Then — by  my  side  a  man  falls  down,  falls  on 
his  rifle,  and  lies  still,  never  stirs  again  .  .  . 
shot  through  the  head,  clean  through  the  brain 
[69] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

.  .  .  that's  what  the  cracking  of  whips  means ; 
it's  coming  from  over  there,  out  of  the  wood. 
Somewhere  over  there  the  enemy's  sharp- 
shooters are  lying  and  hning  its  edge  and  open- 
ing fire  on  us. 

What's  the  next  thing? 

Lie  down — Mark  distance — Cover! 

But  no  order  comes.  We  push  on  toward 
the  wood  undeterred,  as  if  these  bullets  did 
not  concern  us  in  any  way.  The  sharpshooters' 
fire  is  not  hot  enough  as  yet;  we  have  not,  so 
far,  got  into  sufficiently  close  touch  with  the 
enemy. 

It  is  an  uncomfortable  sensation  to  feel  that 
over  there  muzzles  are  pointing  straight  at  us. 
We  are  advancing  almost  as  hurriedly  and 
clumsily  as  'rookies  at  their  first  field  day. 

As  I  move  forward,  I  turn  my  head  and  look 
back.  Behind  me  I  sec  new  lines  of  skirmish- 
ers advancing  one  behind  the  other — supports 
to  be  pushed  forward  later. 

What  is  that  crawling  along  the  ground  be- 
[70] 


BLOOD  AND  IRON 


hind  our  line?  .  .  .  there  is  one  here,  another 
over  there — it  looks  so  novel  and  so  odd.  They 
are  crawling  back  out  of  the  firing-line.  And 
I  see  how  one  of  them  suddenly  tries  to  rise, 
clutches  his  rifle  with  both  hands,  and  hauls 
himself  to  his  feet  by  his  gun.  And  now  he  is 
spreading  his  arms  out,  tumbling  over  back- 
wards, and  flinging  his  hands  away  from  him, 
far  apart  ...  his  hands  are  still  flapping  up 
and  down  on  the  grass.  I  am  looking  back 
as  if  fascinated  while  my  legs  keep  on  advanc- 
ing. 

But  suddenly  something  begins  to  set  up  a 
rattle  over  there  in  the  wood  and  buzzes  like 
huge  alarum-clocks  running  down. 

"Lie  down." 

And  there  we  are  lying  down,  flat  on  our 
stomachs,  as  if  we  had  already  been  mown 
down,  for  every  man  of  us  knows  what  that 
was.  They  have  masked  machine-guns  in  the 
wood  over  there;  they  are  opening  fire  on  us. 
I  feel  how  my  heart  is  thumping  against  my 

[71] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

ribs.  A  machine-gun  is  equivalent  to  a  com- 
pany, the  Old  Man  once  explained  to  us,  after 
we  had  been  shot  down  in  heaps  to  the 
last  man  by  the  machine-guns  in  the  autumn 
manoeuvres. 

What's  the  next  thing? 

Cautiously,  without  raising  it,  I  turn  my 
head.  Behind  us,  too,  the  lines  of  skirmishers, 
close  up  to  us,  have  disappeared  from  the  face 
of  the  earth;  they  too,  have  gone  to  cover  in 
the  grass.  Only  outside  the  firing  zone  are 
they  still  being  pushed  forward. 

Shall  we  have  to  retreat?  Are  we  going  to 
attack  ? 

Then  the  order  to  fire  rings  out,  and  is  zeal- 
ously passed  on  from  unit  to  unit. 

"Rapid  fire!    Into  the  wood!" 

Yes,  but  what  are  we  to  fire  at?  Lying 
down,  there  is  nothing  to  be  seen  of  the  sharp- 
shooters. They  won't  do  us  any  harm;  in  an- 
other minute  they  will  have  disappeared  among 
the  trees.  But  the  machines — they  have  hid- 
[72] 


BLOOD  AND  IRON 


den  them  away   among  the   foliage   to  good 
purpose. 

Our  subaltern,  lying  a  bare  five  paces  away 
from  me  in  the  grass,  raises  himself  on  his 
elbows,  and  gazes  intently  through  his  field- 
glasses.  I  know  what  is  vexing  his  soul.  He 
is  a  handsome,  splendid  lad,  for  whom  even  we 
grizzled  old-timers  would  go  through  fire  and 
water,  for  he  meets  you  as  man  to  man,  with- 
out sniffing  or  swagger,  as  it  becomes  a  young- 
ster. And  the  other  day,  when  I  was  march- 
ing with  the  rear  guard,  we  discussed  Lillien- 
cron's  novels.  Since  then  he  has  always  ap- 
pealed to  me  as  if  he  had  stepped  straight  out 
of  one  of  these  romances  of  war.  He  is  all 
ablaze  to  glean  his  first  laurels.  But  however 
much  he  may  twiddle  the  focus  of  his  glasses 
up  and  down  and  crane  his  neck,  he  cannot 
discover  a  trace  of  the  enemy,  and  we  blaze 
away  foolishly  at  the  wood,  and  may,  for  all 
I  know,  be  bringing  down  leaves  or  birds  from 
the  trees  there. 

[73] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

"Close  to  the  big  oak.  To  the  right  in  the 
undergrowth,"  some  one  of  the  rank  and  file 
sings  out. 

I  strain  my  eyes  to  the  spot,  and  fail  to  see 
anything. 

And  again  I  hear  the  guns  growling  all 
round  us.  But  somewhere  out  of  the  far  dis- 
tance a  clear,  long-drawn  bugle-call  rings  out 
amid  the  iron  bass.  It  thrills  like  nerve  and 
brain  against  an  iron  wall. 

Behind  there,  to  the  right — they  are  on  the 
run  there !  And  from  afar  the  rifle  fire  rattles 
like  mad. 

"My  men !    Up  with  you !    At  the  double !" 

That  came  from  our  lot  .  .  .  our  subaltern 
is  racing  on  with  his  drawn  sword  in  his  hand. 
...  I  am  still  prone,  and  have,  almost  auto- 
matically, drawn  my  right  knee  close  up  under 
my  body  .  .  .  they  are  rising  to  their  feet  to 
the  left  and  right  of  me,  and  dashing  on  after 
him  ...  a  wrench!  and  my  knapsack  slides 
lop-sided  up  the  back  of  my  neck  .  .  .  then  I 
[74] 


BLOOD  AND  IRON 


jump  up  with  my  rifle  in  my  right  hand,  and 
am  running  for  all  my  legs  are  worth. 

But  as  we  rise  to  our  feet  the  machine-guns 
in  the  woods  begin  to  buzz,  and  to  rain  lead 
into  our  ranks,  until  right  and  left  of  me  men 
yelp  and  drop  twisted  and  tumbled  to  the 
ground. 

"Down!    Rapid  fire!" 

The  line  is  prone  and  again  we  are  blazing 
desperately  into  the  wood,  and  can  catch  no 
glimpse  of  our  enemy.  Never  a  single  arm 
raised  against  us,  never  the  eye  of  a  single  man 
to  challenge  us.  The  wood,  the  green  wood, 
is  murdering  us  from  afar,  before  a  single 
human  face  comes  in  view. 

And  while  to  the  right  and  left  of  me  the 
rifle  fire  chatters  incessantly,  the  grim  mockery 
of  it  maddens  my  blood,  and  makes  me  see 
red  before  my  eyes.  I  see  scale-armor  and 
visors  .  .  .  high  in  their  stirrups  the  knights 
burst  blazing  out  of  the  wood,  and  I,  a  reckless 
horseman  of  the  past,  I  leap  into  the  saddle — 

[75] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

my  broad  sword  flashes  clear  and  kisses  the 
morning  breeze — and  now  up  and  at  them  hke 
a  thunderbolt.  Then  eyes  are  flashing  into 
mine  and  hands  are  raised  for  the  melee — and 
stroke  for  stroke,  breast  to  breast,  the  pride  of 
youthful,  virile  strength  .  .  .  Ha-ha-ha-ha! 
What  has  happened?  Where  have  horse  and 
rider  vanished?  Where  is  my  sword?  We 
are  not  even  charging  men.  Machines  are 
trained  on  us.  Why,  we  are  only  charging 
machines.  And  the  machine  triumphs  deep 
into  our  very  flesh.  And  the  machine  is  drain- 
ing the  life-blood  from  our  veins,  and  lapping; 
it  up  in  bucketsful.  Those  who  have  been  hit 
are  already  lying  mown  down  in  swathes  be- 
hind us  and  are  writhing  on  their  wounds. 
And  yet  they  are  racing  up  behind  us  in  their 
hundreds — young,  healthy  human  flesh  for  the 
machines  to  butcher. 

"Up!    Get  on!    At  the  double!" 
The  gallant  young  subaltern  dashes  on  .  .  . 
he  is  waving  his  sword  above  his  head  reck- 
[76] 


BLOOD  AND  IRON 


lessly  ...  a  picture  for  a  painter.  I  am  rush- 
ing after  him  ...  his  cheer  in  my  ears  .  .  . 
then  the  gallant  vision  begins  to  sway  .  .  . 
the  sword  flies  from  his  grasp — the  subaltern 
stumbles  and  falls  face  forward  in  the  short, 
stiff  stubble  .  .  .  then  I  race  past  him  ...  I 
can  hear  nothing  except  the  uncanny  buzz  com- 
ing out  of  the  wood  ...  I  literally  feel  how 
the  lead  is  splashing  into  our  ranks,  how  men 
are  breaking  down  to  the  right  and  left  of  me. 
.  .  .  "Down!  Rapid  fire!"  ...  I  throw  my- 
self on  my  face,  my  rifle  at  the  ready.  .  .  .  Why 
does  the  order  fail  to  reach  us?  No  shout 
comes  from  the  subaltern,  none  from  the  non 
coms.  .  .  .  the  nearest  man  a  good  twenty 
paces  away  .  .  .  and  then  one  other  .  .  . 
only  we  three.  .  .  . 

The  first  line  is  lying  shot  down  in  the  stub- 
ble ..  .  what's  the  next  thing?  The  ground 
becomes  alive  behind  us  .  .  .  and  clattering, 
panting  and  shouting  .  .  .  and  again  the 
wood  rumbles  sullenly  .  .  .  there  they  are, 
I  77] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

lying  flat,  breathing  hard  .  .  .  never  a  word 
.  .  .  rifle  to  the  ready  .  .  .  and  shot  after 
shot  .  .  .  those  are  the  sixth  and  seventh  com- 
panies .  .  .  they  have  filled  up  our  gaps. 

"Up,  up!    At  the  double!" 

The  head  is  plunging  on,  the  body  after  it, 
into  the  zone  of  bullets,  and  dashing  forward 
with  eyes  fixed  greedily  on  the  ground  to  spy 
out  the  nearest  molehill  when  we  fling  our- 
selves down.  And  when  the  excited  "Down!" 
o'erleaps  itself,  we  too  tumble  down  as  if  we 
had  been  swept  away.  And  look,  it  is  advanc- 
ing to  meet  us,  that  murderous  wood.  .  .  . 
"Up!  At  the  double!"  .  .  .  who  can  tell 
whether  he  has  been  hit  or  not?  .  .  .  behind 
there,  out  of  the  undergrowth — that's  where  it 
came  from  .  .  .  that's  where  the  streak  of  bul- 
lets flashed  .  .  .  there  between  the  white  larch 
trunks  the  beam  of  lead  leaped  out  to  meet  us 
.  .  .  over  there,  behind  that  green  wall,  that's 
where  Murder  is  sitting,  and  shooting  our  arms 
and  legs  away  from  our  trunks.  Slay  her  as 
[78] 


BLOOD  AND  IRON 


she  has  slain  us.  Rend  her  to  pieces,  as  she  has 
rent  us. 

"Up!    At  the  double!" 

The  body  rages  on  in  the  whirl  of  the  tem- 
pest— the  wood,  the  wood!  .  .  .  the  last  mus-- 
cle  is  still  straining  for  the  wood  ...  as  if 
the  soul  had  leaped  free  of  the  body,  so  the 
body  chases  after  it — toward  the  wood  .  .  , 
lungs  perforated  by  shot  are  running  still;  en- 
trails riddled  by  bullets  are  still  pressing  on 
toward  it  .  .  .  and  if  you  are  not  hit  in  the 
head,  you  are  still  jumping  up  once  more ;  and 
if  you  fall,  you  are  crawling  on  all  fours — to- 
ward the  wood.  .  .  . 

What's  happened? 

Of  a  sudden  a  deep  stillness  falls.  .  .  . 

The  machines  are  silenced! 

Not  a  single  shot,  not  a  single  spurt  of  flame 
.  .  .  there — a  rustling  rising  amid  the  under- 
growth .  .  .  the  branches  overhead  are  sway- 
ing frantically  against  each  other.  Look! 
something  is  scurrying  among  the  trees,  and 

[79] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

pushing  and  hauling — now,  to  crown  it  all, 
they  are  trying  to  save  their  precious  machines 
from  us. 

Yah!  yah!  The  earth  reverberates  dully 
and  trembles  under  our  tread  ...  a  roar  of 
cheers,  clubbed  rifles,  that's  how  they  are  com- 
ing up  behind  us  .  .  .  our  reserves  are  driv- 
ing the  last  assault  home  .  .  .  they  are  charg- 
ing in  dense  mobs — sappers,  sharpshooters, 
rifle-men  ...  a  tall  sapper  jumps  clean  over 
me — I  see  how  his  eyes  are  flashing  as  he 
passes,  .  .  .  Up,  after  them  .  .  .  there  is  the 
heather  .  .  .  there  is  the  entrenchment  .  .  . 
down  with  you  into  the  trench  and  scramble  up 
on  hands  and  feet .  .  .  where  are  they  ?  Where  ? 
— where  ?  .  .  .  there,  by  that  belt  of  firs  .  . .  they 
will  have  disappeared  in  another  minute — ^past 
thick,  silvery  tree-trunks,  through  the  green 
beech  leaves,  with  the  sun  laughing  in  them, 
the  lust  of  blood  charges  red  and  naked  .  .  . 
headlong  through  the  undergrowth — and  now 
— there  is  something  wriggling  away  so  comi- 
[80] 


i 


BLOOD  AND  IRON 


cally  before  our  eyes,  and  twisting  with  sinu- 
ous dexterity  in  and  out  among  the  trees  and 
the  undergrowth  .  .  .  there  is  something 
dinging  to  the  machine  as  if  it  were  ingrown 
into  the  iron.  .  .  .  Ha,  ha! — in  the  clearing 
yonder  the  horses  are  waiting.  .  .  . 

"Let  go!     Run  for  what  you  are  worth — 
let  go!" 

But  they  won't  let  go  .  .  .  for  their  horses 
are  already  ploughing  through  the  under- 
growth .  .  .  the  wagon  is  straining  to  the 
traces  ...  in  another  minute  they  will  have 
thrown  their  guns  into  the  wagon  .  .  .  and 
then  so-long  ...  I  am  done — the  trees  are 
dancing  round  and  round  before  my  eyes  .  .  . 
I  catch  my  foot  in  the  root  of  a  tree.  .  .  .  Lay 
on!  Lay  on!  They  are  "ours"  who  have 
come  up,  and  are  laying  on  blindly  on  heads, 
and  bayoneting  bent  backs  and  bared  necks, 
till  the  whole  tangle  disperses  squealing.  ...  I 
drag  myself  to  my  feet.  A  lad,  a  mere  boy, 
is  sprawling  over  and  clutching  his  abandoned 
[8i] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

gun  .  .  .  with  an  oath  some  one  dashes  at 
him — it  is  my  yokel  bareheaded,  his  face  dis- 
torted by  rage  .  .  .  the  boy  stretches  out  his 
mangled  hand  to  ward  him  off,  his  lower  jaw 
is  waggling,  but  his  mouth  remains  voiceless. 
.  .  .  The  next  moment  the  fixed  bayonet 
plunges  into  his  chest  .  .  .  first  his  right,  then 
his  shattered  left  hand  seizes  the  blade  as  if  in 
his  death  throes  he  were  trying  to  pluck  it  out 
of  his  heart ;  so  he  clings  tightly  to  the  bayonet 
...  a  thrust !  a  recovery !  .  .  .  a  bright,  leap- 
ing jet  follows  the  steel  .  .  .  and  heart 
and  breath  gasp  their  last  among  the  dead 
leaves.  .  .  . 

All  round  men  are  lying  slain  on  the  brown 
carpet  of  the  woods.  .  .  . 

But  the  machines  are  still  alive,  and  rage 
against  the  machines  fires  the  blood,  and  con- 
sumes the  flesh.  .  .  .  Up  with  the  trenching 
tools !  .  .  .  with  axes  upraised  they  rush  at  the 
machines,  and  hail  blows  upon  the  barrels. 
The  retorts  wherein  Death  has  brewed  his  po- 
[82] 


BLOOD  AND  IRON 


tion  shriek  as  though  wounded  .  .  .  the  jack- 
ets burst  .  .  .  the  water  flows  out  .  .  .  and 
the  carriage  leaps  spHntered  into  the  air  .  .  . 
twisted  metal,  the  spokes  of  wheels  and  car- 
tridge-belts litter  the  ground  all  round,  but  we 
are  battering  and  smashing  everything  under- 
foot until  our  hot  blood  has  cooled  its  rage  on 
the  metal.  .  .  . 

And  now  amid  joyous  cheers  raise  the  thun- 
derous shout  of  Victory.  Let  the  pipes  and  the 
bugles  ring  out.  This  is  Death  on  the  stricken 
field!  This  is  a  soldier's  frenzy  and  the  joy 
of  battle :  to  charge  with  bared  breast  against 
planted  steel — to  dash  cheering  with  soft,  un- 
cased brain  against  a  wall  of  steel.  In  such 
wholesale,  callous,  purposeful  fashion  vermin 
only  are  exterminated.  We  count  for  nothing 
more  than  vermin  in  this  war. 

And  dazed  and  sick,  we  gaze  at  the  ma- 
chines, and  the  steel  and  iron  littering  the 
ground  blink  up  at  us  full  of  guile. 


[83] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  SWAMP 

For  the  whole  of  the  forenoon  we  had  heard 
firing  in  the  distance,  the  thunder  of  cannon 
and  the  rattle  of  musketry.  Our  regiment  had 
been  marched  hither  and  thither.  The  fight 
had  drawn  nearer  and  nearer.  We  were  ex- 
pecting to  be  under  fire  at  any  moment,  and 
then  we  had  to  fall  back  again,  and  look  for  a 
new  place  to  develop  our  attack.  It  seemed  as 
if  the  orders  that  came  through  were  contra- 
dictory, and  this  tension  of  uncertainty  fell  like 
a  blight  on  our  spirits,  and  got  on  the  nerves 
both  of  officers  and  men.  At  length  we  had 
wound  through  a  defile,  the  steep  slopes  of 
which,  left  and  right,  were  thickly  grown  with 
trees.  Things  had  got  into  a  bit  of  a  mess. 
We  had  had  to  force  our  way  through  under- 
growth soaked  with  rain,  through  brambles 
and  clumps  of  tall  broom  on  which  the  green 
[84] 


THE  SWAMP 


pods  were  still  pendent.  At  times  there  was 
nothing  in  sight  except  the  roof  and  wall  of 
greenery. 

We  breathed  more  freely  when  at  last  the 
sky  spread  clear  overhead  again. 

So  now  we  have  reached  a  green  meadow, 
and  are  marching  straight  across  it,  but  are 
still  unable  to  see  anything  of  the  enemy's 
forces  yet.  Even  the  firing  has  died  down, 
and  has  become  more  distant  than  before.  It 
seemed  as  if  we  had  come  into  another,  re- 
moter world,  and — so  we  have;  for  soon  we 
notice  how  soft  the  ground  has  become  under 
our  feet,  how  water  is  oozing  up  at  every  step. 
We  shall,  if  we  go  on,  be  right  in  the  middle 
of  a  swamp. 

That  is  the  reason  of  the  solitude  reigning 
all  around  us. 

The  terrain  is  impracticable. 

To  the  right  and  left  of  us,  and  all  about 
us,  nothing  but  swamp,  running  out  into  a 
broad  sheet  of  open  water,  the  depths  of  which 
[85] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

no  one  can  guess,  or  tell  whether  it  be  ford- 
able. 

The  head  of  the  column  is  already  swinging 
round  and  we  are  retracing  our  steps  toward 
the  defile  to  get  out  of  the  rat-trap. 

And  in  the  middle  of  the  meadow: 

"Halt!     Form  sections!" 

The  companies  have  fallen  in.  The  officers 
have  assembled,  and  are  pow-wowing.  We 
seem  to  have  lost  touch.  The  sergeant  beside 
me  is  swearing  up  his  sleeve,  and  is  cursing 
at  something  about  lunacy  and  blindman's  buff. 
I  am  gazing  up  meditatively  at  the  heights, 
overgrown  with  trees  and  undergrowth,  and 
am  thinking  what  fun  it  would  be  if  we  were 
to  have  to  make  our  way  back  to  the  defile 
now,  and  in  the  thick  of  it  the  enemy  were  to 
break  in  on  us  right  and  left — no  man  would 
come  out  of  it  alive — the  battle  of  the  Teuto- 
burger  Forest  recurs  to  me — I  am  trying  to 
make  out  if  they  are  oaks  or  beeches  over  there 

Of  a  sudden  there  is  a  flash  of  light- 

[  86  ]  i 


THE  SWAMP 


ning  from  the  undergrowth;  the  very  firma- 
ment cracks  and  sways  as  if  it  were  going  to 
fall  in  on  us.  .  .  . 

"Lie  down!"  Horror  screams  somewhere 
pr  other. 

And  trembling,  we  lie  down  .  .  ,  and  over 
our  heads  rushes  something  that  howls  for 
our  flesh.  .  .  .  What's  the  next  thing?  Up 
and  at  them  now !  Rush  straight  at  the  guns. 
Suffocate  their  fiery  mouths  with  our  flesh  and 
bones. 

"Up!    Get  up!" 

The  captain  comes  up  to  us  at  a  run.  The 
breath  of  the  iron  holds  us  tight  pressed  to 
the  ground  as  if  in  a  vice.  .  .  . 

Turn  your  head  away. 

Now! 

Now! 

Then — A-a-h  I 

The  vault  of  Heaven  has  cracked  above  us, 
and  has  spurted  down  on  to  the  sand  from 
above.  Life  is  lying  there,  wriggling  on  the 
[87] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

earth,  and  the  hands  that  were  clawing  the 
ground  are  now  clutching  idly  at  the  shattered 
air.  I  rise  to  my  feet  again.  ...  I  have  not 
been  hit.  But  the  man  who  leaped  up  beside 
me — he  is  lying  flat  in  the  sand  and  screaming 
in  a  broken  voice.  He  is  lying  as  if  he  had 
been  nailed  firmly  through  his  stomach  to  the 
earth,  and  as  if  he  could  not  get  free  again. 
The  body  itself  is  dead,  only  the  arms  and  legs 
are  still  alive.  And  arms  and  legs  are  work- 
ing wildly  through  the  air. 

"Up !  Get  up !  Quick  march !"  a  voice  yells 
in  our  ears.  We  no  longer  know  who  it  is 
shouting  to  us,  and  we  don't  know  from  what 
quarter  they  have  called  us.  .  .  .  We  leap  to 
our  feet.  We  leave  the  captain  and  the 
wounded  in  their  blood;  we  start  up  and  run 
away,  and  are  running  a  race  with  the  shells, 
for  we  are  running  for  our  bare,  naked  life. 
But  the  shells  have  the  legs  of  us.  They  catch— | 
us  up  from  behind  in  our  backs,  and  wherever^ 
the  invisible  sheaf  plunges  hissing  down,  men 
.[88] 


THE  SWAMP 


are  falling  with  it_and  rolling  helter-skelter . in- 
their  blood.  But  we  speed  away  over  twitch- 
ing and  dismembered  bodies,  and  over  bodies 
turning  somersaults,  and  look  neither  to  the 
-fight  nor  to  the  left.  We  are  on  the  run,  and 
—shrink  into  ourselves  as  we  run.  We  draw  our 
necks  deep  between  our  shoulders,  for  every 
man  feels  that  the  next  moment  his  head  will 
be  leaping  out  from  between  his  shoulder- 
blades  from  behind. 

And  eyes  of  iron  are  glaring  at  us  from  be- 
hind. The  swamp!  The  swamp!  The 
thought  suddenly  uprears  its  head  in  me.  We 
are  running  blindly  straight  into  the  swamp. 
Only  another  twenty  paces  now — already  the 
foremost  have  reached  it,  and,  senseless  in  their 
terror,  jump  into  it — the  water  spurts  up  high 
— and  now — what  has  happened  now?  Their 
feet  are  stuck  fast — they  tilt  over  forwards — 
they  claw  for  something  to  hold  on  to — the 
rifle  flies  out  of  their  hand — and  face  forward 
they  plunge  into  the  water — and  close  on  our 
[89] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

heels  they  come  stamping  up — the  tight- 
packed,  maddened  mob.  .  .  . 

''Back!     Get  back!" 

But  every  one  has  ceased  to  be  conscious 
of  what  he  is  doing.  And  though  our  eyes 
start  out  of  our  head  at  the  terror  we  see  in 
front  of  us,  Death  is  breathing  its  cold  breath 
into  the  back  of  our  neck.  ; 

And  into  the  gurgling  water,  wriggling  with 
bodies  and  alive  with  lungs,  over  human  bodies 
writhing  beneath  the  water,  Death  tramples 
us  to  the  other  bank.  Any  man  who  goes 
down  is  lost,  for  they  are  pressing  on  behind 
us  past  all  holding.  The  water  is  already  up 
to  our  armpits.  But  there  is  a  firm  bottom 
beneath  our  feet.  True,  the  bottom  may  clutch 
at  us,  and  cling  round  our  feet.  True,  the 
water  may  bite  savagely  at  our  flesh  with  teeth 
and  with  nails.  But  whatever  may  be  trying 
to  draw  us  down  to  itself  from  below,  we 
trample  underfoot.  The  shoulders  of  a  form 
emerge;  they  plunge  down  again,  and  disap- 
[90] 


THE  SWAMP 


pear.  The  faces  of  drowning  men  emerge  and 
cleave  to  the  light,  and  sink  gurgling  into  the 
depths.  Lost  arms  wave  about  in  the  air  and 
try  to  find  support  on  the  surface  of  the  water. 
We  dodge  these  arms,  for  whomever  they  may 
seize  they  draw  down  with  them  to  Death. 

And  in  the  thick  of  this  hurly-burly  of 
Death,  amid  these  whistling  lungs,  amid  these 
panting,  red,  panic-stricken  faces,  the  cloud  of 
shells  strikes  home,  and  hurls  its  hail  of  iron 
overhead.     The  water  spurts  up  in  jets. 

And  again! 

Explosions  and  screams,  and  the  hissing  of 
lead,  and  the  shrieks  of  men,  and  blood  and 
water  foam  up,  till  no  one  knows  whether  he 
has  been  hit  or  is  still  alive ;  for  in  front  of  me 
— so  close  that  I  could  clutch  it — I  see  a  jugu- 
lar vein,  ripped  through,  spurting  in  an  arch 
like  a  fountain — and  in  his  blood  the  fellow 
hit  staggers  back,  and  blood  and  howls  surfeit 
the  black  flood,  until  it  is  at  length  reddened 
with  human  blood — Get  on!  get  on!  Don't 
[91] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

look  round!  There — the  other  bank  over 
there!  There  Life  is  standing  and  spreading 
out  his  arms  toward  us.  Get  on !  Before  they 
have  murdered  all  of  us  in  this  swamp!  Get 
up !  Get  up !  Thank  God !  The  water's  fall- 
ing !  Only  up  to  the  hips  now — only  up  to  the 
knees. 

And  now 

Our  feet  leap  on  to  the  dry,  blessed  land 
and  strike  forward  beyond  all  control,  and  race 
over  the  field.  They  refuse  to  obey  any  orders. 
They  are  racing — racing  toward  the  protection 
of  the  forest  beckoning  us  of  its  mercy. 

There!  Headlong  in  among  the  trees,  and 
into  the  bushes,  into  the  thorns.  There  they 
are  falling  lifeless  to  the  ground,  their  faces 
buried  in  the  soil,  and  they  are  squeezing  their 
eyes  tight,  to  shut  out  the  sight  of  the  accursed 
blue  of  heaven  that  spat  down  on  us  so  treach- 
erously— You  dogs!  You  beasts!  To  shoot 
us  down  from  behind — it  is  nothing  more  nor 
less  than  cowardly  assassination, 
[92] 


THE  SWAMP 


And  slowly  breath  and  consciousness  return 
to  us  again,  and  when  we  have  come  to  our 
senses  we  look  at  one  another  with  dumb  eyes, 
and  these  eyes  presage  nought  that  is  good. 

A  great,  unspeakable  Horror  that  will  never 
be  allayed  again  has  risen  in  these  eyes. 


[93] 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  WHIRLING  EARTH 

Half-way  on  the  march  some  one  fell  down 
beside  me,  flung  out  his  arms,  clawed  himself 
tightly  to  the  earth,  and  screamed  and  gasped 
against  the  soil.  Barely  half  an  hour  later  we 
saw  another  who  had  fallen  into  convulsions. 
And  when  we  were  lying  in  a  damp  ditch  wait- 
ing for  the  enemy,  a  man  suddenly  jumped  up, 
and  shrieked,  and  ran  away.  He  laughed  back 
at  us  from  afar  until  he  vanished  from  our 
sight  in  the  rain.  The  shrieking  and  running 
away  had  infected  us  all.  'Twon't  be  long  be- 
fore it  will  be  your  turn. 

One  night  when  we  were  lying  in  our 
trenches,  and  had  fallen  asleep  to  the  thunder 
of  the  guns,  I  suddenly  started  up — confused 
— dazed;  and  lo,  the  stars  were  standing 
bright  in  the  dark,  rainless  sky,  and  shone 
down  solemnly,  ah  God!  how  solemnly,  on  the 
turmoil,  as  if  nothing  in  this  world  mattered. 
[94] 


THE  WHIRLING  EARTH 


Yet  there — in  front  of  me,  before  my  very  eyes 
—glimmered  a  red  reflection — that  surely  must 
be  a  pool  of  blood,  for  the  stars  are  mirrored 
in  it  so  redly — and  suddenly  a  blind  rage  over- 
took me  to  howl  aloud  and  clench  my  fists,  and 
to  scream  in  the  very  face  of  the  great  Master 
up  above  there — But  I  had  neither  time  to 
howl  nor  to  run.  For  in  this  self-same  night 
it  so  happened  that  an  uncanny  whirr  fell  on 
our  ears  from  out  the  distance.  That  was 
Death  flying  toward  us  on  propellers.  The 
spectres  of  the  night  whirred  above  us ;  we  shot 
blindly  into  the  air — for  every  moment  the 
storm  was  bound  to  break  over  us.  .  .  .  Tor- 
pedo tubes  above  us  .  .  .  they'll  spurt  in  a 
minute  .  .  .  they're  going  to  fling  down 
dynamite  ,  .  .  and  then  the  magnesium 
bombs  blazed  out  .  .  .  cries  and  crashes  rose 
wherever  we  looked  .  .  .  then  they  are  gone 
again  .  .  .  but  we  had  to  retire  from  our 
trenches  ,  .  .  senselessly,  like  automata,  we 
marched  for  the  whole  of  that  day.  I  felt  the 
[95] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

goose-flesh  creeping  over  my  skin;  my  nerves 
ached,  and  if  the  bayonet  were  not  at  the  small 
of  my  back  I  should  chuck  my  rifle  away,  and 
roll  sprawling  in  the  damp  sand. 

And  yet  four  days  afterward  they  have  con- 
trived to  get  us  to  make  a  stand  again.  For 
in  our  rear,  on  the  other  bank  of  the  river,  our 
regiments  have  crossed,  and  are  groping  for 
new  positions.  But  we  have  to  cover  their 
passage  at  any  cost. 

We  were  now  drawing  on  our  last  reserve. 
We  were  still  standing  with  our  spades  in  our 
hands,  and  throwing,  with  aching  backs  and 
arms,  more  soil  on  the  works,  when  in  front 
of  us  we  saw  figures  passing  up  and  down  on 
the  grey,  twilight  field.  They  were  grubbing 
the  soil  up  busily,  and  were  putting  something 
we  could  not  see  into  holes,  and  covering  it  in 
again.  They  went  about  their  work  noiselessly 
— no  incautious  step  and  no  unguarded  move- 
ment— and  when  they  came  back  again  and 
passed  us,  and  marched  on,  their  faces  were 
[96] 


THE  WHIRLING  EARTH 


livid  and  their  lips  dumb.  They  proved  them- 
selves to  be  first-class  moles.  They  had  done 
a  good  bit  of  work.  They  had  undermined  the 
earth.  They  had  stuffed  the  ground  with  ex- 
plosives, and  if  the  enemy  comes  tonight  we 
shall  repay  the  gifts  they  lavished  upon  us 
from  the  sky  the  other  day  with  interest.  They 
have  arranged  it  all  like  a  rat-trap. 

Over  there,  beyond  the  mined  field  even,  two 
companies  are  lying  in  extended  order.  And 
midway  between  them,  without  a  vestige  of 
cover,  stands  our  battery  on  the  open  field.  It 
is  planted  there  as  if  it  were  doomed  to  be  de- 
livered into  the  enemy's  hands. 

And  now  we  are  lying  in  our  long  trenches, 
and  are  peering  out  into  the  field,  with  our 
eyes  glued  to  the  sharply  outlined  silhouettes 
of  the  guns.    The  sun  has  set  some  time  ago. 

From  the  far  distance  the  thin  rattle  of 
musketry  reaches  us  clearly. 

Wonder  if  it'll  last  much  longer? 

Our  orders  are  to  remain  under  arms. 
[97] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

We  have  put  on  our  overcoats.  The  night  is 
chilly,  and  lowering,  I  gaze  out  over  the  field 
of  death — nothing  makes  any  difference  to  me 
now — if  only  it  were  over  quickly. 

A  scout  has  come  in,  and  delivers  his  report 
in  a  whisper. 

Our  instructions  are  not  to  fire  before  the 
order  to  fire  is  given,  and — then  to  fire  into  the 
air. 

In  the  background,  far  on  the  horizon,  the 
ground  rises,  and  the  gray  skyline  stands  out 
against  the  cloudy  sky.  The  musketry  fire  has 
become  hotter  from  minute  to  minute,  and  has 
increased  to  a  threatening  rattle.  To  the  right 
and  left  of  us  fighting  is  in  full  swing.  In 
front  of  us  the  mined  field  lies  silent,  and  the 
two  companies  too,  are  lying  silent  in  their 
rifle-pits. 

I  am  conscious  that  I  am  terribly  tired — I 
can  no  longer  keep  myself  on  my  feet — my 
head  sinks  down  on  my  rifle — my  eyes  close — 
but  the  overstrained  nerves  are  still  alert. 
[98] 


THE  WHIRLING  EARTH 


And  now- 


The  earth  reverberates  sullenly. 
•    That's   our   battery!      It   is   firing   straight 
into  the   darkness.      So   our  turn   is   coming 
now. 

We  hear  how  "ours"  over  there  are  opening 
fire,  and  how  it  suddenly  increases,  and  dies 
down,  and  then  again  swells  to  a  maddening 
rattle.  That  is  an  attack  by  sharpshooters  in 
overwhelming  strength  .  .  .  they  cannot  be 
very  far  from  one  another  now  .  .  .  and  yet 
the  battery  goes  on  bellowing,  and  luring  the 
enemy  to  assault.  .  .  . 

And  now  a  martial  symphony  rises  over  the 
dark  country  .  .  .  bugles  shrill  through  the 
darkness,  and  drums  are  rolling  sullenly  .  .  . 
that  means  a  general  assault  .  .  .  there  rises 
a  sound  of  shouting  and  tramping  ...  a 
thunderous  roar  of  triumph  rises  to  the  dark 
sky  .  .  .  that  is  the  shout  of  victory  from  a 
thousand  throats  ...  in  their  thousands  they 
have   charged    "ours"    over   there,    and    have 

[99] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

crushed  them  by  assault.  .  .  .  Ha,  ha!  they 
have  taken  a  battery  by  storm.  .  .  . 

Why,  of  a  sudden,  has  silence  fallen  .  .  . 
what  is  the  object  of  it  .  .  .  now  it's  our 
turn  .  .  . 

"Into  the  air !  Rapid  fire !"  And  the  volley 
crashes.  And  look  there  .  .  .  over  there  the 
cheer  rings  out  again  .  .  .  the  signals  for  as- 
sault sound,  and  thousands  of  voices  are  shout- 
ing it  simultaneously  .  .  .  there  they  are 
foaming  up  .  .  .  they  are  charging  on,  drunk 
with  victory,  in  closed  ranks  .  .  .  they  are 
rolling  with  a  roar  over  the  mined  field  .  .  . 
they  are  trampling  the  earth,  as  if  with  horses' 
hoofs  .  .  .  that  means  Death  ...  I  am  lying 
rigid  .  .  .  now  it  must  break,  now  ...  I 
open  my  mouth  wide  .  .  .  my  rifle  is  trem- 
bling in  my  grasp.  .  .  . 

And  then — 

The    Earth    has    opened    her    mouth  .  .  . 

lightnings,  crashes  and  thunderings,   and  the 

Heaven  splits  in  twain  and  falls  down  in  flame 

[  100  ] 


THE  WHIRLING  EARTH 


— the  earth  whirls  upwards  in  shreds  .  ,  . 
men  and  the  earth  blaze  and  hurtle  through 
the  air  like  Catharine  wheels  .  .  .  and  then 
...  a  crash,  a  maddening  uproar,  strikes  us 
full  in  the  chest,  so  that  we  reel  backward  to 
the  ground,  and  half-consciously  struggle  for 
breath  in  the  sand  .  .  .  and  now  .  .  .  the 
storm  is  over  .  .  .  the  pressure  of  the  atmos- 
phere relaxes  off  our  chest  ...  we  breathe 
deep  .  .  .  only  scattered,  dancing  flames  now 
and  squibs  .  .  .  fireworks.  .  .  . 

But  what  on  earth  has  happened  ? 

We  peer  out  fearfully  over  our  earthworks. 

Has  red  Hell  opened  its  mouth; 

There  rises  a  noise  of  screams  and  yells,  an 
uproar  so  unnaturally  wild  and  unrestrained 
that  we  cringe  up  closer  to  one  another  .  .  . 
and,  trembling,  we  see  that  our  faces,  our  uni- 
forms, have  red,  wet  stains,  and  distinctly 
recognize  shreds  of  flesh  on  the  cloth.  And 
among  our  feet  something  is  lying  that  was 
not  lying  there  before — it  gleams  white  from 
[  loi  1 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

the  dark  sand  and  uncurls  ...  a  strange  dis- 
membered hand  .  .  .  and  there  .  .  .  and  there 
.  .  .  fragments  of  flesh  with  the  uniform  still 
adhering  to  them — then  we  realize  it,  and  hor- 
ror overwhelms  us. 

Outside  there  are  lying  arms,  legs,  heads, 
trunks  .  .  .  they  are  howling  into  the  night; 
the  whole  regiment  is  lying  mangled  on  the 
ground  there,  a  lump  of  humanity  crying  to 
Heaven.  .  .  . 

Clouds  are  arising  from  the  earth  .  .  .  they 
are  rising  crying  aloud  in  the  air  .  .  .  they 
pass  over  us  in  thick  drifts,  so  that  we  can  see 
the  wounds  steaming,  and  can  taste  blood  and 
bones  upon  our  tongues.  .  .  . 

And  then  a  spectral  vision  rises  before  my 
eyes  ...  I  see  red  Death  standing  outside 
there  on  the  plain  .  .  .  the  clouds  reveal  a 
face  grinning  down  on  the  symphony  .  .  . 
and  suddenly  a  clear  note  detaches  itself  from 
the  darkness — a  tune  which  enraptured  Death 
is  playing  to.  himself  till  his  fiddle  splits  .  .  . 
[  I02] 


THE  WHIRLING  EARTH 


is  that  a  human  being  coming  up,  running, 
here?  ...  he  is  coming  with  a  rush  ...  he 
will  leap  upon  our  backs  .  .  .  halt !  halt !  halt ! 
He  stumbles  upright  into  the  trenches,  and 
tumbles  sobbing  and  howling,  among  our  rifles. 
He  strikes  out  at  us  with  hands  and  feet  .  .  . 
he  is  crying  and  struggling  like  a  child,  and  yet 
no  man  dares  go  up  to  him  .  .  .  for  now  he  is 
rising  on  his  knee  .  .  .  and  then  we  see !  Half 
his  face  has  been  torn  away  .  .  .  one  eye  gone 
.  .  .  the  twitching  muscle  of  the  cheek  is 
hanging  down  ...  he  is  kneeling,  and  open- 
ing and  closing  his  hands,  and  is  howling  to 
us  for  mercy. 

We  gaze  at  him  horror-stricken  and  are 
paralyzed  .  .  .  then  at  length  the  yokel — and 
our  eyes  thank  him  for  it — raises  the  butt  of 
his  rifle  and  places  the  muzzle  against  the 
sound  temple  .  .  .  bang!  .  .  .  and  the  maimed 
wreckage  falls  over  backward  and  lies  still  in 
his  blood.  .  .  . 

And  again  the  darkness  casts  up  shapes  .  .  . 
[  103] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

they  run  up  and  reel  about  like  drunken  men 
.  .  .  they  fall  over  and  pick  themselves  up 
anew  .  .  .  they  race  forward  through  the 
night  in  zigzags,  until  they  at  last  collapse  ex- 
hausted, and  lie  still  under  our  very  eyes  and 
make  an  end  of  it.  .  .  . 

And  at  length  some  one  comes  crawling  to- 
ward us  .  .  .  he  is  crawling  up  on  all  fours 
...  he    is    dragging   something   behind    him 
with  his  body,  and  all  the  time  he  is  whining 
like  a  sick  dog,  and  is  howling  shrilly  in  long- 
drawn   tones  ...  he  is   still  crawling  along 
fast — and  when  he  has  reached  us  we  see — 
and  the  blood  stands  still  in  our  hearts — they 
are  his  entrails  hanging  out  of  his  body  .  .  . 
his  belly  has  been  ripped  up  from  below  .  .  . 
he  is  crawling,  he  is  crawling  up  on  his  entrails 
...  he  is  coming  .  .  .  the  entrails  are  com- 
ing .  .  .  horror  breaks  out  from  every  pore 
.  .  .  for  hardly  three  paces  away  from  me  he 
lies  still  .  .  .  and  then  .  .  .  May  God  forgive 
me !  ...  he  raises  himself  slowly  on  his  hands 
[  104] 


THE  WHIRLING  EARTH 


...  he  succeeds  for  a  moment  .  .  .  and  looks 
.  .  .  Merciful  God!  ...  he  looks  at  me,  and 
refuses  to  let  my  eyes  go  again  ...  I  can  see 
nothing  except  these  great,  death-stricken  eyes 
.  .  .  Merciful  God!  ...  his  eyes,  those  eyes! 
Those  are  a  mother's  eyes  looking  down  on  me 
unspeakably  .  .  .  that  is  a  son  of  his  mother 
lying  there  before  us  butchered.  ...  I  will 
break  out  of  my  fastness.  ...  I  will  throw  my- 
self on  him,  sobbing,  and  kiss  his  face,  and 
bathe  his  anguish  away  in  my  tears.  ...  I 
will  do  it!  I  will!  .  .  .  and  cannot  stir  my- 
self from  my  rigid  tension.  .  .  .  Then  the  mon- 
strous strain  relaxes — his  arms  give  way  .  .  . 
he  falls  forward  on  his  face  and  sinks  down  on 
his  tortured  body.  His  hands  twitch  once 
more  .  .  .  then  he  lies  still  and  kisses  Mother 
Earth,  who  has  slain  her  children  so  hor- 
ribly. .  .  . 

I  am   done  .  .  .  my  hands   are  trembling. 
.  .  .  Then  all  of  a  sudden,  a  voice  behind  us 
begins     to     sing  .  .  .  solemnly — long-drawn. 
[105] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

.  .  .  "Now  thank  we  all  our  God"  .  .  .  that 
is  Madness  singing  there  ...  we  are  all  next 
door  to  madness.  ...  I  look  round,  and  see 
gray,  distorted  faces,  and  blazing,  startled  eye- 
balls. .  .  .  And  suddenly  the  singing  voice 
changes  to  a  loud,  impudent  burst  of  laugh- 
ter. ... 

"Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!"  The  laugh  is  full 
of  horror,  and  mingles  with  the  dying  whine 
beyond.  .  .  .  The  laugh  grows  ever  louder, 
and  ever  wilder,  and  laughs  in  triumph  at  the 
naked,  pitiful  dying,  littering  the  ground. 

"Drummers!     Strike  up!"  shouts  the  voice. 

"Uncover  for  prayer !" 

We  recognize  him ;  he  is  a  reservist  belong- 
ing to  some  pious  sect.  A  sergeant  has  seized 
him,  and  tries  to  hold  him  .  .  .  the  captain 
has  run  up,  but  the  madman  tears  himself 
away  and  runs  ahead  of  them  to  a  rifle-pit  .  .  . 
he  stands  aloft,  a  black,  wild  silhouette  against 
the  pale  sky,  and  spreads  out  his  arms  in  bless- 
ing over  the  sick  night  ...  he  stands  there 
[  io6  ] 


THE  WHIRLING  EARTH 


like  a  rapt  priest,  and  raves,  and  is  blessing 
the  mangled  darkness.  "In  the  name  of  the 
Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy 
Ghost." 

Then  arms  seize  him  from  behind  and 
pull  him  down  .  .  .  they  drag  him  to  the 
ground.  .  .  .  "Our  Father"  he  howls  aloud, 
and  strikes  and  kicks  out  all  round  him,  and 
goes  on  praying  from  his  raging  body  until  at 
length  breath  fails  him  .  .  .  they  have  tied 
him  hand  and  foot,  and  have  gagged  him.  .  .  . 

But  now  the  Thing-that-Couldn't  happens 
— that  none  the  less  was  bound  to  happen. 

And  when  the  voice  calls  out  it  comes  over 
me  as  if  I  had  lived  it  all  once  before.  .  .  . 

"Captain!"  shouts  the  hard,  naked,  impu- 
dent voice  we  all  know.  "Haven't  you  got  any 
cotton  wool  for  us  to  plug  our  ears  with?" 

We  have  all  turned  round  as  if  at  the  word 
of  command.  It  is  the  militia-man,  the  yokel, 
standing  facing  the  captain  and  gesticulating 
.at  him.     "I  only  wanted  to  ask  if  those  are 

[  107  ] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

wild  beasts,  or  if  they're  what  are  called  human 
beings  you've  torn  to  pieces  there?" 

But  curt  and  sharp,  as  we  knew  it,  the  rasp- 
ing note  of  command  responds : 

"What  the  devil's  the  matter  with  you?  Pull 
yourself  together.  Can't  you  hear?  Get  back 
to  your  place  at  once." 

But  then  it  bursts  out,  the  voice  of  Nature, 
and  resounds  so  harshly,  and  tears  down  all 
barriers. 

"Murderers!"  roars  a  blasphemous  mouth. 
"Murderers  of  men!  We  shall  have  to  knock 
them  all  on  the  head  like  dogs." 

We  all  start  as  if  under  an  electric  shock 
,.  .  .  that  was  what  was  on  the  tip  of  the 
tongues  of  all  of  us  .  .  .  that  was  the  climax 
that  was  bound  to  come  ...  we  cannot  en- 
dure to  go  on  lying  in  this  charnel-house  any 
longer.  .  .  . 

"You  mind  what  you're  about."  The  other's 

wrath  breaks  out  once  more  .  .  .  and  then  we 

know  it  for  certain,  the  captain  is  a  fool 

[io8] 


I 


J 


THE  WHIRLING  EARTH 


he  has  lost  the  game  from  the  very  start  .  .  . 
and  now  ...  it  is  Hke  a  shadow  play  before 
my  eyes  .  .  .  like  a  ghostly  kinematograph. 
...  I  see  that  the  militia-man  has  drawn  his 
bayonet  .  .  .  the  captain  is  standing  facing 
him  with  his  revolver  in  his  hand,  and  gives 
him  an  order  ...  he  promptly  gets  a  blow 
with  the  butt  end  of  the  rifle  on  his  head  that 
fells  him  to  the  ground  without  a  sound  .  .  . 
and  they  leap  up  from  all  the  trenches.  .  .  . 
"Murderers!"  they  cry.  "Murderers!  Kill 
them!" 

There  is  no  stopping  it  now.  ...  I  feel  I 
have  gone  mad.  ...  I  do  not  know  where  I 
am.  ...  I  see  wild  beasts  all  round  me  dis- 
torted unnaturally  in  a  life-and-death  grapple 
.  .  .  with  bloodshot  eyes,  with  foaming,  gnash- 
ing mouths,  they  attack  and  kill  one  another, 
and  try  to  mangle  one  another.  ...  I  leap  to 
my  feet.  ...  I  must  get  away,  to  escape  from 
myself,  or  in  another  minute  I  shall  be  in  the 
thick  of  this  maddened,  death-doomed  mob. 
[  109] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

...  I  stumble  over  the  rifle-pits.  ...  I  race 
out  into  the  night,  and  tread  on  quaking  flesh 
.  .  .  step  on  hard  heads,  and  stumble  over 
weapons  and  helmets  .  .  .  something  is  clutch- 
ing at  my  feet  like  hands,  so  that  I  race  away- 
like  a  hunted  deer  with  the  hounds  at  its  heels 
.  .  .  and  ever  more  bodies— breathless — out 
of  one  field  into  another.  .  .  .  Horror  is 
crooning  over  my  head  .  .  .  horror  is  croon- 
ing beneath  my  feet  .  .  .  and  nothing  but  dy- 
ing, mangled  flesh  .  .  . 

Has  the  whole  earth  exploded  then?  .  .  « 
Are  there  nothing  but  dead  abroad  this  night  ? 
.  .  .  Has  every  human  being  been  fusilladed? 

How  long  have  I  been  running?  ...  I 
hear  how  my  lungs  are  whistling  .  .  .  and 
hear  how  my  temples  are  beating  .  .  .  my 
breath  is  choked.  ...  I  am  done.  ...  I 
stagger  backwards  .  .  .  am  falling  dead  to  the 
ground  ...  no !  I  am  sinking  back  on  some- 
thing soft,  and  sit  still  motionless,  and  listen 
intently  to  the  night.  ...  I  can  hear  nothing 
[no] 


THE  WHIRLING  EARTH 


except  the  blood  in  my  ears  ...  all  of  a  sud- 
den there  is  a  light  in  my  eyes  like  bright, 
clean  daylight  .  .  .  the  sun  is  shining  .  .  . 
then  I  realize  it,  it  is  my  own  head  ...  vi- 
sions are  teeming  in  my  brain,  and  are  teeming 
out  of  my  head,  one  unwearyingly  on  the  heels 
of  the  other.  ...  I  see  the  regiments  march- 
ing out  .  .  .  they  are  passing  by  in  the  bright 
sunshine  .  .  .  the  Blues  from  over  there,  the 
Reds  from  over  here;  they  are  marching 
against  each  other  in  long  array,  .  .  .  Now 
they  halt,  and  are  standing  drawn  up  against 
each  other  on  a  huge  front  .  .  .  ready  for 
the  fray  .  .  .  then  our  captain's  voice  on  this 
side  rings  out.  .  .  .  "Ready?"  .  .  .  and  the 
rifles  on  both  sides  are  raised.  I  see  the  black 
mass  of  the  muzzles  .  .  .  they  are  scarcely 
ten  paces  apart  .  .  .  they  are  aiming  straight 
for  the  chest.  .  .  .  "Stop!"  I  am  trying  to 
cry  out,  "Stop!  You  ought  to  attack  in  open 
order  with  seven  paces  intervals."  .  .  . 

Then  our  captain's  voice  rings  out  again. 
[Ill] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

"Fire!"  .  .  .  the  volley  crashes,  and  behold! 
not  a  man  is  hit  .  .  .  they  all  are  standing 
there  unscathed  .  .  .they  have  fired  into  the 
air  .  .  .  and  with  shouts  of  joy  the  ranks  dis- 
solve .  .  .  they  rush  toward  one  another  .  .  . 
the  rifles  fall  to  the  ground  .  .  .  but  they  rush 
into  one  another's  arms,  and  fondle  one  an- 
other, and  laugh  aloud  as  children  laugh  .  .  . 
then  they  fall  back  into  line  .  .  .  they  shoul- 
der their  rifles  .  .  .  right  about  turn!  .  .  . 
the  bands  strike  up  a  joyous  march,  they  march 
off  with  bands  playing — every  regiment  to  its 
own  home.  .  .  . 

And  now  I  catch  myself  singing  an  accom- 
paniment to  it  aloud.  ...  I  am  beating  time 
with  my  right  hand,  and  supporting  myself  on 
my  seat  with  my  left  .  .  .  and  something 
trickles  oddly  across  my  hand — something  like 
warm  water.  ...  I  raise  my  hand  to  my  eyes 
...  it  is  red  and  moist  .  .  .  blood  is  flowing 
over  my  white  hand  .  .  .  then  I  realize  it,  the 
white  thing  under  me  is  not  a  heap  of  sand. 
...  I  have  been  sitting  on  a  corpse  .  .  .  hor- 

[112] 


THE  WHIRLING  EARTH 


ror-stricken,  I  rush  about  .  .  .  and  one  is  ly- 
ing over  there,  too  .  .  .  and  there,  and  there ! 
.  .  .  Merciful  God!  I  see  it  plainly  now; 
there  are  only  dead  to-night  .  .  .  the  human 
race  died  out  this  very  night  ...  I  am  the 
last  survivor  .  .  .  the  fields  are  dead — the 
woods  dead — the  villages  dead — the  cities  dead 
— the  Earth  is  dead — the  Earth  was  butchered 
to-night,  and  I,  only  I  have  escaped  the 
slaughter-house. 

And  it  comes  over  me  as  a  great  thing,  a 
pathetically  great  thing — now  I  know  what  my 
destiny  is — lowering,  I  watch  my  own  actions, 
and  wait  to  see  how  I  shall  accomplish  it — I 
mark  how  I  am  slowly  putting  my  hand  into 
my  pocket — before  I  left  home  I  took  my 
pocket-pistol  with  me.  I  am  holding  the  toy 
in  my  hand — the  steel  is  looking  up  at  me  and 
blinking  at  me — I  am  gazing  with  a  smile  into 
its  black,  confiding  muzzle — I  am  holding  it 
against  my  temples — I  pull  the  trigger,  and 
fall  over  backward — the  last  of  mankind  on 
this  dead  earth! 

[113] 


EPILOGUE 

WE   POOR  DEAD 

They  have  now  covered  up  our  hot  breath 
with  earth.  Why  are  you  Winking  at  me  with 
your  bleared  eyes,  my  brother?  Are  you  not 
glad?  Don't  they  envy  us  our  sweet  death? 
They  have  laid  us  out  in  a  picturesque  row, 
and  you  need  only  turn  your  head  to  rub 
against  human  flesh  at  once,  and  if  you  turn 
your  yellow  eyeball,  you  can  see  nothing  but 
corpses  in  the  twilight.  One  beside  the  other, 
that  is  how  they  are  sleeping.  And  corpse 
upon  corpse,  ever  more  of  them,  through  the 
whole  length  of  the  loose  soil  of  the  potato- 
field,  and  we  even  fill  the  whole  adjoining  field 
of  roots. 

Wonder  whether  the  sun  still  goes  on  shining 

above  us? — whether  they  still  know  how  to 

laugh  in  the  towns  as  we  used  to  in  our  time  ? 

Wonder  whether  my  wife  still  goes  on  remem- 

["4] 


,Jlt 


WE  POOR  DEAD 


bering  her  dead  husband — and  my  two  kiddies 
— whether  they  have  already  forgotten  their 
father?  They  were  so  tiny  at  the  time — an- 
other man'll  come  along — they  will  call  an- 
other fellow  father — and  my  wife  is  still  so 
young  and  fair. 

We  poor  dead  heroes!  So  do  not  disturb 
our  last  sleep  any  longer.  We  had  to  die  to 
enable  the  others  to  live.  We  died  for  our  na- 
tive land  in  its  straits.  We  are  victorious  now, 
and  have  won  land  and  fame,  land  enough  for 
millions  of  our  brothers.  Our  wives  have  land, 
our  children,  our  mothers,  our  fathers  have 
land.  And  now  our  poor  native  land  has  air 
to  breathe.  It  need  no  longer  be  stifled.  They 
have  cleared  the  air  of  us.  They  have  got  rid 
of  us,  of  us  who  were  far  too  many.  We  are 
no  longer  eating  the  bread  away  from  other 
folks'  mouths.  We  are  so  full-fed,  so  full-fed 
and  quiet.  But  they  have  got  land !  Fertile 
land !  And  ore !  Iron  mines !  Gold !  Spices ! 
And  Bread! 

[X15] 


THE  HUMAN  SLAUGHTER-HOUSE 

Come,  brother  philosopher,  let  us  turn  our 
faces  to  the  earth.  Let  us  sleep  upon  our 
laurels,  and  let  us  dream  of  nothing  but  our 
Country's  Future. 


THE  END 


[ii6] 


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